/ 


LI  BRA  FLY 

OF  THL 

UNIVERSITY 

©f    ILLINOIS 

834S36I 

LL94 

19 1 8 


\ 


*^    t..* 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


nrn 


,VwW 


5.  ■''n* 


fc/  iu  U       IT 


24i3El«l»-9eg5 


DEC  1  5  ife 


CCI  13{S6S 


J 


p,^ 


/ 


\  X 


7(/L  J 


963 


APR 


Hon  -2!#V0219(| 


^  1979  _,> 


/fi?^ 


8BSS 


— H41 


/ 


THE   S.  &  K.  DRAMATIC   SERIES 


THE  TBUTH  ABOUT  THE  THEATBE. 

Anonymous.     Net  $1.00. 

FOUE  PLAYS   OF  THE  FBEE  THEATRE. 

Authorized  Translation  by  Barrett  H.  Olark. 
Preface  by  Brieux  of  the  French  Academy. 

"The  Foaaila,"  a  play  in  four  acts,  by  Fransois 
de  Curel. 

"The  Serenade,"  a  Bourgeois  study  in  three 
acts,  by  Jean  JuUien. 

"Framboise'  Luck,"  a  comedy  in  one  act,  by 
Georges  de  PortoRiche. 

"  The  Duve,"  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  by  Georges 
Ancey.     Net  $1.50. 

CONTEMPOBABY  FBENOH   DRAMATISTS. 

By  Barrett  H.  Clark.     Net  $1.50. 

FLAYS  AND  PLAYEBS:  LEAVES  FBOM  A 
CBITIC'S  SCBAP  BOOK. 

By  Walter  Prichard  Eaton.     Net  $2.00. 

THE   ANTIGONE   OF   SOPHOCLES. 

Prof.  Joseph  Edward  Harry.     Net  $1.00. 

EUROPEAN  DEAMATISTS. 

A  Literary  and  Critical  Appraisal  of  Strindberg, 
Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Wilde,  Shaw  and  Barker.  By 
Archibald  Henderson,  M.A.,  Ph.D.     Net  $2.00. 

GEORGE  BERNARD   SHAW:      HIS  LIFE  AND 
^^ORKS 
By    Archibald    Hendersoni    M.A.,    Ph.D.     Net 
$5.00. 

SHORT  PLAYS. 
By  Mary  MacMillan.     Net  $1.50. 

THE   GIFT— A  POETIC  DRAMA. 

By  Margaret  Douglas  Rogers.     Net  $1.00. 

COMEDIES  OF  WORDS  AND  OTHER  PLAYS. 
By    Arthur    Schnitzler.     Translated    by    Pierre 
Loving.     Net  $1.50. 

LUCKY  PEHR. 

By    August    Strindberg.        Authorized    Transla- 
tion by  Yelma   Swanston  Howard.     Net  $1.50. 

EASTEB  (A  Play  In  Three  Acts)  AND 
STORIES. 

By  August  Strindberg.  Authorized  Transla- 
tion by  Yelma  Swanston  Howard.     Net  $1.50. 

THE  HAMLET  PROBLEM  AND  ITS 
SOLUTION. 

By  Emerson  Yenable.     Net  $1.00. 

PORTMANTEAU   PLAYS. 

By  Stuart  Walker.     Net  $1.50. 

See  page  183  for  deacription  of  above  Books. 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS, 
CINCINNATI. 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 

AND 

OTHER  PLAYS 


BY 

ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 


ENGLISHED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 
WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

PIERRE   LOVING 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  &»  KIDD  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1917,  by 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 

Copyright  in  England 


I  St  Printing  May,  191 7 

2d  Printing  December,  1917 


CO  I' 


OS 


2  3  '^53  6  / 
L  L  -^4 
I  ?  IE 


CD 
CO 


C3 


To  The  International  my  acknowledg- 
ments are  due  for  permission  to  reprint  sev- 
eral of  the  translations  contained  in  this 
volume. 

P.  L. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Introduction vii 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 

The  Hour  of  Recognition   ....  i 

The  Big  Scene 37 

The  Festival  OF  Bacchus 91 

OTHER  PLAYS 

Literature 127 

His  Helpmate 160 


INTRODUCTION 

To  the  great  mass  of  the  American  public 
Arthur  Schintzler,  admittedly  the  finest  psychol- 
ogist in  the  theatre  today,  is  still  as  it  were  some- 
thing of  a  far  half-rumored  country  upon  whose 
bourne  the  proverbial  tired  pedestrian  seldom 
touches.  As  a  people,  whether  intensively  or  ex- 
tensively, we  haven't  as  yet  cultivated  the  habit  of 
turning  up  the  lamp  after  coffee  and  liqueurs  for 
the  purpose  of  abandoning  ourselves  without  re- 
serve to  a  refined  spirit,  a  subtle  mind  reaching  out 
with  infinite  circumspectness  and  tact.  Tact  has 
its  peculiar  morality  in  the  same  way  that  art  has 
its  implied  ethics.  This  tact  when  applied  to  the 
province  of  thought  may  simply  mean  that  the 
world  is  not  an  affair  of  sharp  lines,  rules  or  data. 
It  is  this  quality  emanating  from  just  such  a  spirit 
and  mind  that  we  find  uppermost  in  Arthur 
Schnitzler. 

In  Europe  Schnitzler's  dramatic  pieces  are  ranked 
on  a  par  with  those  of  his  German  confreres, 
Hauptmann  and  Wedekind.  The  keenly  discern- 
ing Berlin  and  Munich  audiences,  not  wholly  free 
from  an  acute  national  consciousness,  concede  him 
a  place  immediately  after  these  two  in  their  affec- 
tions. But  in  view  of  the  fact  that  Schnitzler  is 
uniquely  abreast,  if  not  a  few  hurdles  ahead,  of 
his  time  in  handling  that  vein  of  character  analysis 
which  utilizes  most  effectively  the  latest  discover- 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 


ies  of  psychic  and  psychological  research,  it  is  not 
at  all  improbable  that  the  ultimate  tribunal  of 
playgoers  will  insphere  him  higher  than  either 
Hauptmann  or  Wedekind.  As  long  as  men  and 
women  will  continue  to  be  intrigued  by  the  elusive 
enigma  of  life,  by  subtle  states  of  the  soul,  by 
problems  of  the  subliminal  self,  so  long,  we  may 
venture  to  predict,  will  the  plays  of  Arthur 
Schnitzler  compel  attention  from  the  truly  great 
audiences  of  the  world  which,  as  Whitman  real- 
ized, are  the  indispensable  abettors  of  progress 
in  every  art. 

Arthur  Schnitzler  was  bom  in  1862.  His  fa- 
ther, Johann  Schnitzler,  was  a  famous  laryngol- 
ogist.  Following  in  his  father's  footsteps  or 
rather  compelled  to  follow,  he  studied  medicine 
and  obtained  his  degree  from  the  University  of 
Vienna  in  1885.  He  was  appointed  assistant  phy- 
sician at  the  Clinical  Hospital,  one  of  the  largest 
of  its  kind,  in  1889.  Meanwhile  he  was  acting  as 
contributing  editor  to  his  father's  medical  review 
Wiener  Klinische  Rundschau.  At  this  period  we 
notice  that  he  also  contributed  poems,  stories  and 
sketches  to  other  publications.  He  seems  to  have 
applied  himself  whole-heartedly  to  investigations 
in  psychic  phenomena,  for  he  published  an  article 
about  this  time  on  the  treatment  of  certain  diseases 
by  hypnotism  and  suggestion.  Then  followed  a 
trip  to  London,  not  altogether  for  pleasure,  for  it 
bore  fruit  in  the  shape  of  a  series  of  "  London 
Letters  "  contributed  to  his  father's  review  and 
exclusively  devoted  to  medical  subjects  of  wide 
range  and  variety.  His  original  writings  and 
collaborations  on  these  subjects,  together  with  his 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 


occasional  excursions  into  fascinating  byways  of 
medicine,  are  too  numerous  to  mention  here.  Suf- 
fice it  that  they  culminated  in  an  exhaustive  refer- 
ence work  compiled  in  association  with  the  elder 
Schnitzler,  entitled  *'  Clinical  Atlas  of  Laryngol- 
ogy and  Rhinology."  From  that  time  until  this, 
despite  his  beckoning  interests  and  undoubted 
genius  and  recognition  in  creative  literature,  he 
has  maintained  his  intimate  connection  with  the 
Clinical  Hospital  and  still,  as  if  they  constituted  a 
labor  of  first  love,  unremittingly  attends  to  his  pri- 
vate activities  as  a  general  practitioner. 

Schnitzler's  first  play  "  Anatol,"  a  cycle  of 
dialogues  written  around  a  central  character  ap- 
pearing in  each,  was  probably  finished  in  1889; 
it  was  produced  in  1892.  The  success  of 
"  Anatol  "  was  immediate.  Its  wit  and  its  shrewd 
grasp  of  human  nature  captured  Vienna  like  a 
storm.  Up  to  the  time  of  this  writing  he  has 
written  and  produced  about  twenty  five  plays; 
his  last,  big  play,  "  Professor  Bernhardi  "  ( 19 1 2 ) , 
having  started  a  wild  sensation,  crimination  and 
recrimination,  throughdut  the  whole  of  Austria 
and  Germany;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  his 
marvellous  activity  both  as  a  novelist  and  short 
story  writer  has  prompted  criticism,  outside  of 
Austria  and  Germany,  to  deliberately  couple  his 
name  with  the  names  of  Zola,  Dostoievsky  and 
de  Maupassant. 

The  fact  that  in  private  life  Schnitzler  is  a  prac- 
tising physician  says  much.  It  is  significant  and 
infinitely  suggestive  along  the  path  of  a  sound  ap- 
preciation and  appraisal  of  the  man.  It  is  the 
key,  without  doubt,  to  a  proper  and  final  under- 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 


standing  of  his  work  in  that  it  helps  to  throw 
light  on  his  tenderness  and  on  that  peculiar  in- 
cisive dissection  of  human  yearnings  and  the  daily 
stock  of  human  foibles  standing  out  on  every 
page  of  his  novels,  tales  and  plays;  in  short,  those 
poignant  diagnoses  of  the  soul,  instinct  rather 
than  patent  in  everything  he  has  set  his  hand  to, 
which  are  as  inexorable  as  they  are  expert.  This 
fact,  as  I  have  indicated,  provides  the  touchstone 
to  his  writings  which,  quite  possibly,  we  would 
otherwise  miss.  But  it  scarcely  satisfies,  I  need 
hardly  say  —  perhaps  only  serves  to  fan  all  the 
more  —  the  idle  though  wholly  pardonable  curios- 
ity of  those  prying  critcs  who  are  avid  to  know  how 
the  physician  manages  to  filch  time  out  of  his  prac- 
tise to  give  to  what  must,  after  all,  be  the  more 
absorbing  career:  how,  in  a  word,  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  crowding-in  the  long  roll  of  his  superb 
plays. 

As  a  writer,  whether  in  the  realm  of  the  novel  or 
the  theatre,  Schnitzler  hardly  ever  repudiates  his 
origin  and  source ;  for  he  is  first  and  foremost  the 
child  of  Vienna  —  Viennese  of  the  Viennese. 
Though  this  explains  a  good  deal  it  does  not,  on 
the  other  hand,  suggest  the  whole  full-statured 
man.  Inevitably  the  atmosphere  and  life  of  the 
gay  Austrian  capital,  surcharged  with  haunting 
tenderness  and  almost  insolent  indifference,  have 
lent  their  tone  and  invested  his  work,  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  with  a  racy  resilience  peculiar  to 
the  city;  but  certainly  it  cannot  be  urged  that  he 
is  indebted  to  it  for  that  larger  vision  and  scope 
which  transcend  all  local  boundaries  and  reach  up 


INTRODUCTION 


to  eternity.  That  is  inalienably  his  own;  that  is 
from  the  gods. 

If,  as  in  a  sore  crisis  of  misgiving,  Grillparzer, 
Vienna's  noblest  poet,  is  reputed  to  have  said, 
"  They  are  a  Phaeacian  folk,"  then  it  is  more  than 
evident  that  Schnitzler  is  no  sort  of  Ulysses  cast 
up  by  wind  and  tide  on  the  shore  of  the  "  Blue 
Danube  "  to  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  their 
sunny,  smiling  placidity.  No  man  is  altogether 
free  of  his  social  and  artistic  environment.  And 
Schnitzler,  like  the  rest,  is  no  disconcerting  ex- 
ception to  this  well-worn  commonplace.  As 
Elizabethan  London  was  directly  responsible  for 
and  gave  birth  to  Shakespeare,  so  modern  Vienna 
in  a  sense  anticipated  and  produced  Arthur 
Schnitzler.  London  had  its  Mermaid  Tavern 
and  there  is  In  Vienna  a  restaurant  where  the 
young  Viennese  spirits  of  twenty  years  or  so  ago, 
Bahr,  Schnitzler  and  von  Hoffmannsthal  used  to 
foregather  and  thresh  out  their  theories  of  art 
and  life.  Dostoievsky,  with  his  immortal  pity 
and  self-abnegation;  Zola  with  his  biologic  natu- 
ralism; de  Maupassant,  Ibsen  and  Oscar  Wilde 
held  them  enthralled.  The  naturalism  which  they 
absorbed  from  these  writers  they  attempted  to 
apply  to  the  life  about  them.  Bahr  became  in- 
terested in  social  problems  of  the  day,  von  Hoff- 
mannsthal  in  a  new  and  more  close  interpreta- 
tion of  nature,  in  a  new  beauty  of  language,  and 
Schnitzler  in  the  everlasting  problem  of  the  soul. 

Hauptmann  is  of  the  North,  and  you  will  find 
woven  deep  in  the  fibre  of  his  creations  the  un- 
couth cry  and  ruggedness  of  the  North.     Pro- 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 


fessor  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  Hauptmann's  trans- 
lator, has  recently  said  of  the  latter's  men  and 
women  that  they  are  "  impelled  by  hunger,  by 
lust,  by  the  primitive  will  to  power,  by  aspiration. 
They  have  little  eloquence  of  speech  or  grace  or 
gesture,  but  move  as  by  our  own  woes  wnich  are 
also  the  unconquerable  woes  of  the  world.  The 
disharmonies  between  themselves  and  the  universe 
are  tragic  and  final.  Humble  souls  though  they 
are,  they  perish  of  elemental  needs  and  are  cru- 
cified in  great  causes.  They  are  not  beautiful, 
they  are  not  wise,  they  are  not  pure ;  they  are  only 
broken  and  imperfect  members  of  the  family  of 
man."  Schnitzler  on  the  other  hand  is  of  the 
South,  and  accordingly  he  is  permeated  through 
and  through  with  the  frail  warmth,  the  insouciant 
grace  and  sappy  ch^rm  —  phrases  that  come 
glibly  and  naturally  to  the  lips,  like  a  byword, 
whenever  one  is  speaking  of  Vienna.  These 
qualities,  so  apparent  in  Schnitzler,  are  of  course 
winning  in  themselves,  but  in  him  they  are  further 
shot  through  with  a  vein  of  piquant  intrigue  which 
is,  for  the  most  part,  Gallic  in  texture  and  tradi- 
tion—  more  Gallic,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  say, 
than  that  which  operates  in  Paris  itself. 

There  is  a  cross-section  of  Austrian  society 
and  politics  which  offers  an  inviting  target  to  the 
weapons  of  the  alert,  timely  satirist;  and  Schnitz- 
ler, like  Shaw,  has  not  been  reticent  in  this  re- 
spect. Both  in  his  novels  and  plays  he  has  at 
various  times  attacked  socialism,  monarchism,  the 
aristocracy,  semitism  and  anti-semitism,  the  latter 
being  a  question  which  is  always  more  or  less  of 
an  open  sore  in  Vienna.     In  "  The  Road  to  the 

•  • 

Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


Open,"  a  novel,  he  treats  at  considerable  length 
but,  true  to  the  tradition  of  the  satirist,  with  mor- 
dant disinterestedness  (though  this  is  not  the  main 
theme  of  the  book)  this  question  in  its  several 
phases  and  shows  the  ridiculous  types  it  breeds  on 
both  sides.  In  "  Lieutenant  Gustl,"  another 
novel,  he  remorselessly  hacks  to  pieces  the  out- 
worn sentimental  code  of  honor  prevalent  in  Eu- 
rope. In  *'  Professor  Bernhardi,"  his  great 
womanless  play  (there  is  but  one  female  charac- 
ter and  she  is  minor),  he  touches  on  the  problem 
of  free  conscience,  the  right  to  act  as  you  think 
no  matter  what  those  about  you  believe— the 
same  problem,  in  fact,  which  was  treated  by 
Ibsen  in  "  An  Enemy  of  the  People  " —  to  which 
play  indeed  it  bears  a  strong  resemblance,  and 
more  recently,  by  Galsworthy  in  "  The  Mob." 

Unlike  Hauptmann  who,  it  might  be  said,  re- 
sembles him  only  in  the  point  which  is  their  mu- 
tual departure,  Schnitzler  is  above  all  a  consum- 
mate master  of  the  theatre.  He  writes  prima- 
rily for  the  stage,  that  is,  not  for  any  experimen- 
tal or  local  stage,  but  for  the  stage  of  the  world. 
Perhaps  for  the  potential  stage  of  the  world, 
whose  advent,  in  company  with  Brieux  and  Tche- 
kov  and  Shaw,  he  is  helping  to  bring  about.  And 
yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear  to  us  who  are 
accustomed  to  the  ephemeral  flummery  of  Broad- 
way, he  has  carved  his  way  to  an  indubita- 
ble niche  among  the  great  German  stylists  throned 
above  time.  In  delicacy,  in  finesse,  in  that  man- 
ner of  tact  which  is  the  essence  of  good  style,  he 
far  suipasses  his  North  German  contemporary. 
Th's  gift  alone  would  be  but  a  dubious  advantage, 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 


were  it  not  for  the  force  and  ecstasy  beneath  the 
surface  vesture.  Schnltzler's  breadth  is  well  illus- 
trated by  the  fact  that  fused  in  his  work  are  such 
antinomous  elements  as  savoury  wit  and  mysti- 
cism —  the  mysticism  of  Maeterlinck  and  Ruys- 
broeck,  and  this  mysticism  is  mingled  with  the 
irony,  the  prose-lyricism  of  Heinrich  Heine.  But 
outstripping  these  qualities,  or  a  part  of  them,  is  a 
sure  sense  of  the  dramatic,  of  the  most  desirable 
aspects  of  the  theatre  as  it  is. 

Schnitzler's  unforgivingly  satirical  side  pre- 
sents only  one  expression  of  a  deep  and  deliberate 
outlook  on  life.  Nowadays  in  discussing  the 
passing  drama  of  the  boards  we  are  apt  to  lose 
sight  of  this  fact;  so  few  writers  for  the  stage 
have  anything  to  say,  or  do  not  say  it.  The 
printed  drama  has  of  course  received  its  fair  meed 
of  literary  comment.  Schnitzler,  I  wish  to  em- 
phasize, writes  for  the  stage  and  he  has  some- 
thing to  say. 

Precisely  what  his  outlook  on  life  is  and  by 
what  processes  it  has  been  arrived  at,  cannot  be 
here  summarily  stated,  even  supposing  all  the 
biographical  minutiae  at  our  disposal.  We  may 
dismiss  it,  if  we  please,  by  the  all-inclusive  gen- 
eralization (at  best  all  generalizations  are  a  form 
of  hedging)  that  every  significant  dramatist  from 
Sophocles  to  Tchekov  and  Dunsany  has,  in  some 
measure,  possessed  it.  Sophocles,  for  example 
gave  utterance  to  it  in  "  GEdipus  Rex  "  and  the 
"Antigone,"  Shakespeare  most  overwhelmingly 
in  "Hamlet"  and  in  "Macbeth";  Calderon  in 
"  Life  is  a  Dream."  If  you  are  one  of  those 
who  already  read  and  care  for  Schnitzler  at  all, 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 


it  will  hardly  be  a  piece  of  startling  news  to 
you  when  I  assert  that  something  of  the  magic 
and  the  breadth  and  the  truth  which  attaches  to 
these  great  names  attaches  also  to  him  at  his 
highest. 

Man,  Schnitzler  seems  to  imply,  and  does 
actually  declare  through  his  living  characters  and 
the  huge  crises  which  grip  them,  is  an  out-and- 
out  egoist  and  life  an  iridescent  illusion.  To 
delve  down  to  fundamentals  at  once,  man  is  al- 
ways tinkering,  by  thought  and  act,  to  establish 
the  earth  and  his  busy  little  existence,  with  its 
trivial  joys  and  irrelevant  subjective  tumults,  as 
the  central  pivot  of  all  life  in  the  same  way  that 
Dante  naively  seized  on  Jerusalem,  a  religious 
and  therefore  a  subjective  ideal,  as  the  very  heart 
of  the  universe.  It  may  be  that  Dante  was  in- 
tuitively right  and  nothing  matters  in  the  last 
analysis  but  what  we  feel  and  think.  Samuel 
Butler,  crabbed  saint  and  celibate,  pointed  out  to 
a  deaf  generation  too  taken  up  with  Huxley  to 
give  ear,  how  difficult  it  Is  to  cleave  thought 
from  language,  and  It  Is  an  axiom  among  thinkers 
In  general  that  It  Is  quite  hopeless  to  comprehend 
the  universe  outside  of  man's  finite  consciousness. 
Schnitzler  accepts  this  hypothesis  or  cul-de-sac, 
whichever  you  choose  to  call  It,  and  the  whole 
substance  of  his  reaction  is  that,  no  matter  how 
diligently  a  man  may  labor  to  penetrate  to  the  es- 
sential core  of  things.  Illusion,  or  what  goes  by  the 
name  of  Illusion  with  us,  will  always  confusingly 
blend  with  reality  In  our  consciousness  and  vice 
versa.  We  have,  after  all,  but  five  shallow 
senses:  we  come  Into  this  life  armed  as  it  were 

XV 


INTRODUCTION 


with  but  five  shallow  and  desperately  inadequate 
dictaphones  to  dangle  out  blindly  into  space 
among  the  stars  in  order  that  we  might — ^with 
how  much  thought-teasing  I  — "  gather  in  a  small 
part  of  the  infinite  influences  that  vibrate  in  na- 
ture." In  illustration  of  this  sensitive  reaction, 
take  the  following  lines  which  are  not  quoted 
from  Calderon  or  Shakespeare,  but  from  **  Para- 
celsus," Schnitzler's  one  act  play  in  verse : 

"  Our  life  is  wrought  of  dreams  and  waking,  fused 
Of  truth  and  lies.     There  lives  no  certitude. 
Of  others  we  know  naught,  naught  of  ourselves, 
We  play  a  part  and  wise  is  he  who  knows  it." 

Very  sketchily  then,  this  is  the  background  of 
Schnitzler's  art;  on  the  thought  that  illusion  and 
reality  are  interchangeable  terms  for  man  Schnitz- 
ler  has  erected  four-square  the  fascinating  edifice 
of  his  plays.  It  constitutes  a  viewpoint  —  a 
quickened  viewpoint,  despite  its  limitations  as 
a  regular  work-a-day  diet.  And  the  dramatist 
whose  appeal  is  to  surmount  the  merely  local, 
whose  work  is  to  persist  beyond  the  passmg  mo- 
ment, must  give  proof  of  such  a  viewpoint  which 
pithily  and  suggestively  comprises  what  he  thinks 
about  life.  It  is  a  pledge  in  a  sense  that  he  has 
indeed  lived,  or  that  he  has  overtaken  life  and 
is  therefore  eligible  to  the  office  of  holding  up 
the  priceless  mirror.  The  Germans,  as  a  nation 
of  critics,  have  always  more  or  less  known  the 
true  value  of  the  word  "  viewpoint "  JVeltari' 
schauung,  and  to  them  it  signifies  chiefly  the  acid 
test,  cruel  in  rejection,  by  which  they  challenge 
every  claim  to  greatness  in  art.     This  should  not 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 


be  construed  into  meaning  that  the  writer  or  the 
artist  must  consciously  start  out  on  a  kind  of 
Arthurian  quest  in  order  to  achieve  it.  Rarely, 
if  ever,  is  it  achieved  that  way.  Whether  he  is 
born  with  it  or  merely  reaps  it  upon  the  glebe 
of  experience  sown  with  blood  and  suffering, 
ultimately  matters  but  little.  The  fact  is  that  the 
artist  must  have  it;  it  is  the  secret  and  enigma  of 
genius;  and  the  fact  of  his  having  it  singles  him 
out  at  once  from  the  vast  common  litter  of  lesser 
men. 

Though  starting  from  a  vastly  diverse  experi- 
ence, Scnnitzler  has  come  to  look  on  nature  with 
dim  shadowy  eyes,  not  unlike  those  of  Joseph 
Conrad.  I  do  not  wish  to  press  the  comparison 
unduly.  If  you  will  put  the  portrait  of  Conrad 
alongside  the  portrait  of  Schnitzler  and  allow  suf- 
ficiently for  obvious  racial  chiselling  which  marks 
certain  differences,  the  emotional  depths,  the  tem- 
peramental force  common  to  both  men,  will  im- 
mediately become  evident  to  you.  You  might 
say,  referring  to  the  former's  work,  that  he  has 
been  rarely  known  to  smile  while  the  latter, 
slightly  more  sophisticated,  is  always  wearing  a 
creased  smile  about  his  lips  that  is  also  in  the 
nature  of  a  gird.  In  the  view  of  both,  however, 
there  is  a  destiny  which  fashions  us  to  alien  ends. 
There  is  a  greater  similarity  than  a  superficial 
consideration  affords  between  the  characters  of 
Lord  Jim  and  Young  Medardus,  between  Heyst 
and  Young  Medardus.  For  both  the  Pole  and 
the  Austrian,  at  all  events,  men  and  women  are 
hardly  more  than  the  dead  ashes  of  withered 
dreams  swept  helter-skelter  by  the  imperious  ty- 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 


phoons  of  chance :  and  if  it  should  befall  that  one, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  endeavors  to  orient  whither 
he  is  drifting  beyond  Time  and  Space,  he  is  imme- 
diately thrust  back  by  blowing  winds,  and  all  that 
is  vouchsafed  him  at  the  end  of  the  quest  is  the 
clanging  of  mighty  doors.  This  is  not  a  fable 
by  Schnitzler,  but  it  might  be.  You  might,  for 
instance,  die  like  Lord  Jim,  having  fulfilled  your 
destiny  without  suspecting  it ;  or  you  might  be  one 
of  those  luckless  ones  for  whom  despair  and  de- 
lirium, like  snarling  cerberi,  lie  in  wait.  This 
latter  viewpoint  is  searchingly  symbolised  in 
Schnitzler's  tale  called  '*  The  Threefold  Admon- 
ishment." 

Schnitzler's  plays,  the  least  equally  with  the 
greatest,  grow  logically  out  of  this  conception. 
Criticism  proceeds  inductively.  Schnitzler  has 
written  the  plays  and  the  critic,  seeking  the  es- 
sence of  the  man,  saddles  him  with  a  conception 
of  life.  Other  interpretations,  I  have  no  doubt, 
are  possible.  When  you  are  dealing  with  a  big 
man  like  Schnitzler,  it  is  simply  fatuous  to  attempt 
to  pigeon-hole  him.  Whatever  else  Schnitzler 
may  do,  certainly,  it  must  be  admitted,  he  sounds 
the  strident  note  of  irony,  the  helpless  mistaking 
of  illusion  for  reality,  reality  for  illusion.  It 
would,  I  think,  require  more  than  a  mere  journey- 
man's task  to  find  in  all  literature  a  more  striking, 
a  more  ingenious  illustration  of  the  viewpoint 
cited  above  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  one  act 
play  "  The  Green  Cockatoo." 

All  of  Schnitzler's  plays  of  tragic  import,  in  ac- 
cordance with  this  viewpoint,  have  their  satirical 
and  comic  side  and  running  right  through  his 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 


comedies  there  is  an  immanent  vein  of  tragedy. 
For  Schnitzler  the  universe,  taken  all  in  all,  is 
tragic.  The  reason  is  simple.  If  a  man  writes 
comedy  with  a  tragic  hand,  or  weaves  a  deeper 
philosophy  behind  the  play  of  wit,  there  is  no 
telling  how  much  he  has  thought  about  and 
through  the  life  he  is  portraying;  his  thought  has 
probably  risen  to  the  pitch  of  the  universal  and 
that,  if  it  means  anything,  means,  in  the  case  of  a 
dramatist,  that  he  is  a  pessimist. 

And  yet  in  Schnitzler' s  plays  the  tragic  element 
is  kept  perennially  delicate  and  discreet.  Our 
author  tolerates  no  tearing  of  a  passion  to  tat- 
ters, no  truculent  mouthing  and  so  he  has  fash- 
ioned, in  answer  to  his  mood,  well-bred  people 
who  consider  it  decidedly  below  them  to  fly  pas- 
sionately in  the  face  of  Destiny.  "  Abandon  ye 
all  vehemence  who  enter  here  "  he  seems  to  cau- 
tion his  dramatis  personae  previous  to  their  en- 
trance upon  the  three  hours'  traffic  of  the  stage. 
Still,  you  cannot  urge  that  they  are  not  intensely 
real  people  who  act  and  speak  in  a  very  real 
way:  certainly  they  are  insouciant  and  casuistical 
about  this  and  that;  certainly  they  punctuate  their 
languid  utterances  with  little  specious  lies  and 
tinsel  half-truths  about  themselves  and  life  in 
general;  but  they  are  real  and  large  as  life  itself. 
As  Hugo  von  Hoffmannsthal,  speaking  of  them, 
has  said :  "  They  are  like  artists  and  writers 
who  have  gathered  of  an  evening  in  front  of 
the  fireplace  of  one  of  their  confreres.  The  fur- 
nishings are  elegant  and  commodious  and  the 
lamp  is  turned  down.  They  have  quite  forgot- 
ten the  corrosive  ironies  of  the  day.     Lounging  at 

xix 


INTRODUCTION 


their  case,  they  nonchalantly  exchange  anecdotes 
and  develop  paradoxes."  And  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  characters  in  Schnitzler's  plays,  ex- 
cept in  a  few  notable  exceptions,  do  luxuriate  in 
analysing  uncommon  states  of  the  soul  while  they 
appear  to  be  watching  the  vanishing  smoke  of 
their  cigarettes.  But  this  is  inevitable ;  this  is  the 
Viennese  heritage.  Seeking  to  dissect,  as  I  have 
said,  every  fine  shade  of  their  feelings,  they  drift 
from  one  illusion  to  another  and,  thrusting  to 
pierce  behind  the  material  garment  of  things,  they 
hurl  their  feeble  ratiocinative  "  Cui  Bono  ?  "  to- 
ward the  showman  behind  the  wings.  "  A 
bower,"  von  Hoffmannsthal  says  further,  "  takes 
the  place  of  a  scene  and  sunshine  puts  out  the  foot- 
lights. Thus  we  stage-manage  our  plays.  Ma- 
ture spirits,  matured  early  in  life,  delicate  and 
melancholy,  we  produce  the  comedy  of  our  own 
souls,  the  changing  life  of  the  heart,  glittering 
phrases  for  vile  things,  flattering  causerie,  multi- 
colored images,  sentiments  only  half-born,  epi- 
sodes, agonies — " 


In  the  province  of  the  commercially  disdained 
one  act  play,  the  darling  of  the  mushroom  little 
theatres,  there  can  be  no  question  that  Schnitzler 
is  today  supreme.  Since  the  death  of  Strindberg, 
with  whom  as  a  psychologist  he  might  be  profit- 
ably contrasted  and  John  Millington  Synge, 
whose  classic  aloofness  it  Is  quite  futile  to  ex- 
pect him  to  approximate,  there  has  risen  no  figure 
comparable  to  him  in  this  long  neglected  art-form 
of  the  theatre. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  one  act  play,  as  we  are  familiar  with  it, 
may  be  said  to  undertake  a  suddenly  glimpsed 
slice  of  life,  a  cross-section  packed  with  emotional 

fjotentiality,  a  climactic  and  fateful  episode  in  the 
ife  of  a  person  or  group  of  persons.  This  epi- 
sode, skillfully  selected  by  the  playwright,  reveals 
the  causal  past  wherein  the  episode  has  fastened 
its  roots  and  foreshadows  something  of  the  fu- 
ture coming  directly  out  of  the  events  en  scene. 
The  one  act  play  does  not  of  necessity  attain  a 
satisfying  emotional  cadenza  at  the  fall  of  the 
curtain,  like  a  phrase  of  music:  the  interest  and 
suspense  of  the  audience  is  entrapped  primarily 
by  what  takes  place  on  the  stage,  and  only  second- 
arily and  incidentally,  by  the  train  of  events  which 
we  conjecture  is  bound  to  follow.  This  does  not, 
of  course,  predispose  against  the  inmiediate  ac- 
tion's serving  as  a  dramatic  springboard  for  the 
imaginative  guess  of  the  audience.  In  point  of 
fact,  a  clever  handling  of  this  element  of  fore- 
shadowing will  heighten  considerably  the  dramatic 
effect.  An  audience  likes  to  feel,  so  to  speak, 
that  it  has  its  hand  upon  the  author's  mind, 
whereas  it  is  the  playwright  who  is  controlling  and 
steering  at  will  the  mind  of  the  audience. 
Schnitzler's  one  act  plays  fulfill  all  the  require- 
ments of  their  kind  with  a  compressed  art  that  is 
little  short  of  perfection. 

The  plays  grouped  under  the  title  of  "  Comedy 
of  Words,"  here  presented  to  the  American  reader 
for  the  first  time,  were  published  in  19 15  and 
represent  the  most  recent  product  from  Schnitz- 
ler's pen  and  though,  as  we  think,  they  will 
scarcely  enhance  his  reputation  to  any  great  ex- 

xsd. 


INTRODUCTION 


tent,  they  do,  nevertheless,  continue  in  the  tradi- 
tion of  his  best  work.  In  the  subsoil  of  "  The 
Green  Cockatoo,"  1898,  "  Anatol,"  1893,  "  Strag- 
glers at  the  Carnival,"  1901;  in  "Literature,' 
1901,  and  "  His  Helpmate,"  1898  (the  latter  two 
are  included  in  the  present  volume),  and  in  the 
"  Comedy  of  Words  "  comprising  "  The  Hour 
of  Recognition,"  "  The  Big  Scene  "  and  "  The 
Festival  of  Bacchus,"  lurk  the  germs  of  his  larger, 
more  discursive  plays.  The  firm  grasp  of  char- 
acter delineation  exhibited  in  these  one  act  plays 
is  always  trenchant,  the  wit  and  satire  sparkling 
and,  upon  the  whole,  they  are  more  closely  and 
tightly  knit,  more  reticent  than  his  full-sized 
plays.  In  actual  performance  what  this  artistic 
reticence  implies  usually  escapes  all  but  the  most 
finished  actors.  And  it  is  precisely  for  this  rea- 
son, rather  than  because,  say,  the  producers 
lacked  the  necessary  insight  and  penetrating  sym- 
pathy, that  the  performance  of  "  Literature  "  at 
the  Bandbox  by  the  Washington  Square  Players 
of  New  York  resulted  in  high  treason  to  art,  in 
sacrilege  and  absurd  fiasco.  Managers,  as  a  rule, 
scout  the  idea  of  producing  Schnitzler*s  longer 
plays  because  of  what  appears  to  them  as  a  lapse 
of  architectonics,  an  absence  of  prescribed  play 
structure,  an  effect  of  diffuseness  and  unconnected 
thought.  But  juxtaposed  to  a  play  by  any  of  the 
best  known  naturalists,  say,  Hauptmann  or  Tol- 
stoi or  Tchekov,  it  will  immediately  be  seen  that 
Schnitzler,  besides  being  an  artist  with  a  sweep- 
ing ecstatic  vision,  is  also  an  artificer  of  the  first 
water.  His  artistic  self-consciousness,  however, 
has  succeeded  admirably  in  obliterating  itself  and 

xxil 


INTRODUCTION 


has  become,  by  an  act  of  highest  genius,  transfig- 
ured into  unconscious  and  naive  beauty. 

Whatever  appreciation  of  Schnitzler  exists  on 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic  is  due  mainly  to  the  fine 
clear-cut  paraphrase  of  the  dialogues  of  "  Ana- 
tol "  by  Mr.  Granville  Barker.  Several  years 
ago  the  Anatol  cycle  was  produced  in  New  York 
with  Mr.  John  Barrymore  in  the  title  role.  The 
performance  was  finished  and,  as  I  recall  it, 
left  little  to  be  desired  from  many  points  of  view ; 
but  a  typical  New  York  audience,  slightly  ele- 
vated. It  may  be,  above  the  usual  level  of  Broad- 
way, buttoned  up  after  the  performance  the  vague, 
self-satisfied  and  fatuous  impression  that  Arthur 
Schnitzler,  in  his  own  intimate  cendcle,  must  be 
a  rather  wicked  person  —  witty  and  charming 
and  adorable,  owning  something  of  the  suavity 
and  zest  of  a  roue  who  inhabits  brilliantly  one 
of  Oscar  Wilde's  drawing-room  scenes.  Need- 
less to  say,  Anatol,  irresistible  though  he  him- 
self is,  armored  in  his  panoply  of  eternal  self- 
suspicion  and  self-philosophy,  confesses  only  an 
infinitesimal  part  of  his  creator,  of  the  artist-to-be 
and  his  subsequent  maturity  born  of  a  stupendous 
power  that  is  at  once  overbearing  and  sheer:  his 
wit,  his  rare  humor,  his  almost  uncanny  knowl- 
edge of  the  all-too-human,  his  poetry,  his  travail- 
ing depth  (in  the  sense  that  all  philosophy  is  an 
agonized  travailing).  Schnitzler  was  twenty 
seven  when  he  wrote  "  Anatol."  Since  the  con- 
ception of  that  immensely  engaging  spoiled  child 
or  almost  every  metropolis  in  the  world,  he  has 
pushed  on  to  profounder  regions  of  thought  and 
psycholo^cal  analysis. 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION 


The  character  of  Anatol,  about  whom  the 
cycle  revolves,  is  worth  dwelling  on  for  the  rea- 
son that  it  is  the  archetype  of  other  studies  ap- 
pearing later  in  various  re-pencilled  avatars 
throughout  the  longer  plays.  Anatol  is  an  ex- 
quisite belonging  to  the  modern  jeunesse  dore  with 
a  good  smack  of  the  self-psychologist  in  his 
make-up.  As  a  physician  of  the  feminine  soul, 
a  purveyor  to  the  feminine  heart,  an  amateur  in 
the  art  of  love,  he  runs  pretty  thoroughly  the 
gamut  of  Viennese  society.  He  starts  with  the 
susses  Mddl  whose  habit  is  to  vibrate  between 
the  virtuous-seeming  domesticity  and  the  gay 
abandon  of  the  Prater.  He  ends  —  or  to  be 
exact  —  he  never  ends  with  the  faithless  wife. 
The  old  love,  no  matter  how  poignant  and  heart- 
wringing  at  one  time,  is  always  bartered  for  the 
new.  With  exemplary  ironic  finesse,  his  friend 
and  confidant,  Max,  thimblerigs  him  out  of  the 
mesh  of  many  a  desperate  situation,  many  a  sinis- 
ter dilemma,  many  a  dying  amourette.  Max,  you 
see,  is  the  brutal  opposite  of  the  butterfly  Anatol. 
He  is  safe  and  probably  arrives  at  his  office  in  the 
city  no  later  than  ten  in  the  morning;  he  treads 
ever  the  sane  and  sure  path  of  eternal  skepticism 
as  regards  women.  Neither  moral  nor  immoral 
but  just  master  of  himself,  he  denies  to  the  weaker 
sex  the  usual  benefit  of  the  doubt.  You  cannot 
prove.  Max  might  say,  that  they  are  faithful  even 
if  they  protest  with  tears  and  smelling  salts  on 
your  shoulder;  nor  can  you  argue  that  they  have 
brains  even  though  they  may  bewilder  you  with 
intricate  and  high-sounding  talk.  Anatol,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  being  continually  and  mercilessly 

xxiv 


INTRODUCTION 


racked  by  what  are  in  reality  delicious  misgivings, 
alternately  believing  and  doubting.  Max,  you 
might  say  offhand,  is  a  practical,  level-headed  fel- 
low and  Anatol  —  a  Toy  Philosopher.  Now  a 
Toy  Philosopher  may  be  described,  without  the 
aid  of  a  specimen  of  his  dialectic,  as  a  callow  the- 
orist syllogizing  about  the  world  in  general  and 
about  women  in  particular;  one  who  toys  with 
both,  if  you  like,  by  way  of  experiment.  As  an 
inevitable  consequence  of  his  dilly-dallying  with 
life  and  love,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  his 
hypotheses,  as  well  as  his  conclusions,  should  prove 
amazingly  absurd  and  befuddling.  But  the  one 
unchangeable  condition  of  these  conclusions  of 
Anatol's  is  that  they  are  at  any  moment  subject  to 
change.  Who  would  dare  to  be  absolute  when  it 
is  a  question  of  so  variable  a  quantity  as  women? 

In  the  somewhat  stolid  person  of  Max,  the 
eternally  sound-minded,  Anatol,  as  it  were,  finds 
a  spar  while  floundering  in  the  tub  of  his  Toy 
Philosophy.  Max  is  indeed  hard  put  to  it  in  his 
tireless  exploits  to  temper  the  emotional  inebriety 
of  his  flittering  friend.  Women  —  mystery? 
Pshaw  I  If  women  had  the  brains  to  think  about 
men,  how  great  a  mystery  then  would  men  be  to 
women?  But  Anatol,  stone-deaf  to  reason  how- 
ever wise  and  insistent,  suffers  one  disillusion- 
ment after  another  and  not  only  by  virtue  of  his 
conquests  (for  a  conquest  is  as  good  as  a  disillu- 
sionment), but  also  and  overwhelmingly  because 
of  the  sorry  show  he  makes  of  himself  while 
about  it.  Anatol  emerges  from  the  tangle  of  his 
experiences  unchanged,  unlessoned  —  the  samel 
We  need  seek  no  further.     The  keynote  to  Ana- 

xxy 


INTRODUCTION 


tol's  character,  I  believe,  is  to  be  found  right 
here :  he  is  one  of  those  unresting  persons,  hope- 
lessly temperamental,  who  lacks  above  all  things 
the  knack  of  turning  the  gleanmgs  of  his  experi- 
ence into  the  grist  of  simple  wisdom.  Secretly, 
on  the  unwritten  principle,  no  doubt,  that  all  the 
world  loves  a  charming  rogue,  we  wish  him  all 
kinds  of  luck;  but  even  so,  we  cannot  help  feeling 
that  he  will,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  learn  very 
little  more  of  that  self-created  and  intriguing  para- 
dox :  the  genus  Woman.  To  him,  as  to  all  those 
of  his  introspective  clan,  we  may  justly  apply  thjB 
aphorism  of  Francis  Thompson :  "  Suspicion  cre- 
ates its  own  cause ;  distrust  begets  reason  for  dis- 
trust." 

Anatol,  as  I  have  previously  intimated,  is-  from 
the  artistic  as  well  as  the  chronological  side,  the 
point  of  departure  for  Schnitzler's  work.  The 
immortal  irony  inherent  in  his  mature,  fully  de- 
veloped style,  and  commented  on  so  widely,  is  here 
exquisitely  foreshadowed  and  foretold.  If  this 
irony  is  not  exactly  corrosive  in  the  dialogues,  still, 
such  as  it  is,  it  testifies  to  a  quality  in  the.  author 
which  is  characteristic  of  the  great  wielders  of 
satire,  from  Cervantes  to  Anatole  France  —  that 
quality,  I  mean,  of  being  able  to  laugh  at  one's 
own  cherished  beliefs,  even  at  oneself.  There  is, 
moreover,  a  delightful  piquancy  about  the  cycle 
which,  I  suspect,  is  responsible  for  the  enormous 
vogue  "  Anatol  "  has  received.  But  undoubtedly 
the  highest  expression  of  Schnitzler's  genius  as  a 
craftsman  in  the  realm  of  the  one  act  play  will  be 
found  in  the  plays  contained  in  the  present  volume 
and  in  the  earlier  pieces,  "  Stragglers  at  the  Car- 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION 


nival  "  ( 1901 ) ,  and  "  The  Green  Cockatoo,"  pub- 
lished in  1898. 

In  "  The  Green  Cockatoo  "  the  ironic  touch  of 
Schnitzler  is  most  remarkably  portrayed.  For 
sheer  subtlety  and  evasive  deftness  of  handling, 
for  artistry  or  artifice  as  well  as  art  —  the  art,  I 
mean,  which  perfectly  coalesces  theme  and  frame- 
work, "  The  Green  Cockatoo  "  is  in  its  way  un- 
surpassable in  the  history  of  the  drama.  Call  it 
flawless  technique,  if  you  are  so  minded.  But  the 
term  technique,  so  simple  and  nude  to  the  bench- 
warmer  of  drama  courses,  is  altogether  inconclu- 
sive in  the  present  application  and  calls  for  a  much 
broader  and  more  spiritual  re-definition.  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  define  it  here.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  it  partakes  of  the  qualities  of  ecstasy  and  su- 
prasensual  clairvoyance  and  is  not  to  be  achieved 
with  the  aid  of  Broadway  scissors  and  pastepot, 
nor  by  diligently  studying  the  literal  diagrams  of 
the  schools.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  very  quintessence 
of  genius.  Where  there  is  high  portentous  mat- 
ter (and  there  can  be  no  high  portentous  matter 
unless  there  is  also  personality),  wherever  this 
matter  is  organically  welded  with  form  that  is 
consummately  fitting,  technique,  so  called,  will 
automatically  take  care  of  itself.  In  "  The  Green 
Cockatoo,"  as  in  "  The  Hour  of  Recognition  " 
and  "  The  Festival  of  Bacchus  "  artifice  vanishes 
before  power. 

"  The  Big  Scene  "  is  little  more  than  a  character 
etching,  admirable  though  it  be,  and  "  Literature  " 
is  an  exalted  farce  whose  humor  makes  Laughter 
hold  both  his  sides ;  "  His  Helpmate  "  is  a  quiet 
but  keen  study  in  disillusionment  and  "  Stragglers 

xxvii 


INTRODUCTION 


at  the  Carnival "  contains  shattering  elements  of 
tragic  contrast:  false  hope  flickering  up  in  the 
vaulted  night  of  the  soul,  unconsciously  grim  hu- 
mor and  finally  unutterable  world-weariness  and 
despair,  the  like  of  which,  if  we  would  find  it,  we 
must  seek  in  "  Hamlet  '*  and  the  concluding  scenes 
of  "  Macbeth."  If  Schnitzler  were  simply  a  satir- 
ist, like  Anatole  France,  then  "  The  Green  Cocka- 
too "  would  emerge  as  the  ironic  chef  d'oeuvre  of  a 
pastmaster  of  the  weapons  and  instruments  of 
ironv.  But  since  he  is  infinitely  more  than  a  satir- 
ist, ne  has  given  us  plays  like  "  His  Helpmate," 
*'  Stragglers  at  the  Carnival,"  "  The  Hour  of  Rec- 
ognition "  and  "  The  Festival  of  Bacchus,"  which 
surpass  it  in  emotional  intensity,  in  psychological 
interaction,  in  the  portrayal  of  the  clash  of  funda- 
mental human  consciousness,  or,  which  is  perhaps 
nearer  the  truth,  subconsciousness  with  subcon- 
sciousness; these  plays  are  of  a  different  mould. 
But  as  a  dish  relished  with  the  sauce  of  wit  and  the 
curry  of  biting  satire  "  The  Green  Cockatoo  "  has 
been  unequalled  of  its  kind.  In  this  play  the  au- 
thor has  used  ingeniously,  I  had  almost  said 
greatly,  the  device  of  a  play  within  a  play.  It  is, 
however,  when  closely  examined,  no  idle  device  in- 
tended merely  to  amuse  or  flip  the  jaded  theatrical 
sense,  for  it  voices  by  artistic  implication  the  whole 
trend  of  Schnitzler's  reaction  to  life : 

"  We  play  a  part  and  wise  is  he  who  knows  it." 

The  five  plays  contained  in  the  present  volume 
will  undoubtedlv  commend  themselves  to  those 
who  care  for  the  best  in  modern  drama.     The 

xxviii 


INTRODUCTION 


American  playwright  will  find  it  profitable  to  study 
them  as  models  of  character  drawing,  of  dialogue, 
of  the  broad  vision  that  forgets  mediocrity.  In 
their  way,  since  Schnitzler  is  a  pioneer  in  psychol- 
ogy, they  are  Baedeckers  to  human  nature.  The 
discerning  reader,  already  familiar  with  Schnitz- 
ler's  work,  will  observe  how  much  deeper  he  has 
penetrated  and  will  enjoy  these  new  adventures  in 
the  human  soul.  His  debt  to  Freud,  in  this  re- 
spect, is  already  too  well  known  to  dwell  on.  In 
passing,  however,  permit  me  to  mention  that  in 
his  "  Arthur  Schnitzler  als  Psycholog  "  Dr.  Theo- 
dor  Reik,  a  disciple  of  Freud,  has  attempted  to 
gauge  and  appraise  this  debt.  He  has  taken  the 
plays,  premised  the  situations  as  real,  and  then 
psycho-analysed  the  characters  in  the  manner  of 
the  Austrian  neurologist.  Again  in  these  one 
act  plays  the  reader  will  find  an  artistic  voicing 
of  the  philosophical  point  of  view  that  reality, 
the  familiar  of  the  senses,  grades  indiscernibly 
into  illusion  and  vice  versa.  Suppose  we  put  it 
another  way:  In  the  cut  and  thrust  of  ordinary 
life,  in  the  thronging  press  of  experience  and  sen- 
sation, action  and  thought  and  memory  —  facul- 
ties by  whose  testimony  we  think  we  know  the 
world  about  us  and  are,  moreover,  convinced  that 
we  are  alive  —  it  is  practically  impossible  to  sever 
what  we  think  from  what  is.  Life  then  is  a 
dream-lit  maze  or  only  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  on.  Sleep  comes  but  at  the  end,  for  even  in 
dreams  the  process  of  life  and  thought  is  going 
on.  But  even  in  the  innermost  region  inhabited 
only  by  our  dreams  reside  and  float  fragmentary 

xxix 


INTRODUCTION 


drifts  of  reality,  rumors  of  the  waking  world,  dim 
and  undefined.  And  this,  concisely  put,  is  the 
dominant  theme  hovering  like  an  overtone  above 
the  scenes,  tragic  and  rare  and  enthralling,  of  all 
of  Schnitzler's  work. 

Pierre  Loving. 


New  York  City,  November,  191 6. 


XXX 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 
A  Comedy  of  Words 

PERSONS 

Carl  Eckold,  M.D. 

Clara,  his  wife. 

Professor  Rudolph  Ormin. 

[Scene:  Dining  room  in  the  home  of  Dr. 
Eckold,  Vienna.  A  door  in  the  rear  conducts 
to  an  ante-room  or  vestibule;  another  pierced 
in  the  right  wall  opens  to  the  waiting-room,  still 
another  on  the  left  leads  to  the  other  living 
rooms.  The  furniture  is  comfortable  but  old- 
fashioned. 

Discovered,  Dr.  Carl  Eckold,  a  man  of,  say 
45,  with  a  dark  brown  square-cut  beard,  inclin- 
ing to  baldness.  He  wears  a  pince-nez  for 
reading  purposes.  Also,  Clara,  his  wife,  40, 
still  pretty.  Both  are  seated  at  the  table  finish- 
ing their  dessert. 

The  servingman  comes  in  with  a  card.^ 

Servingman.  The  lady  begs  to  be  admitted  at 
once,  if  possible. 

Eckold  [deliberately  turning  the  card  between 
his  fingers'].     My  hours,  as  announced,  start  at 

I 


^ 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


three.  It  is  scarcely  half  past  two  now.  Ask 
the  lady  to  be  patient.     Anybody  else  waiting? 

Servingman.     Three  patients  already,  sir. 

EcKOLD.  H'ml  I  shall  take  them  in  the  or- 
der of  their  arrival. 

[Servingman  goes  off.  The  maid  serves  the 
coffee,  which  Clara  pours  into  the  cups.^ 

EcKOLD.  Why,  you've  laid  three  covers, 
Clara.  Have  you  forgotten  that  our  Miss  Bet- 
tina,  or,  to  do  her  nibs  justice,  Mrs.  Bettina  Wor- 
mann,  dines  in  Salzburg  today?  Perhaps  in 
Zurich?     Perhaps- — Heaven  only  knows  where? 

Clara.  No.  I  haven't  forgotten,  Carl. 
The  extra  cover  was  laid  for  Ormin. 

EcKOLD.  Ah,  yes.  Made  his  apologies  over 
the  telephone,  has  he? 

Clara.  No,  nothing  definite.  Besides,  I 
know  he  is  coming  to  bid  us  good-bye. 

EcKOLD.  Terribly  busy,  I  suppose,  with  this 
long  journey  in  front  of  him.  Will  you  call  me 
when  he  comes?  I  want  to  pay  my  respects  in 
person.  [Rises,  striding  over  to  the  right,  turn- 
ing half-way. '\     Are  you  going  out? 

Clara.  No,  I've  nothing  particular  on  for  to- 
night. Why  do  you  ask?  Anything  you  wish  to 
consult  me  about? 

EcKOLD.  Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary. 
There's  no  hurry  at  all.  Well  —  [glances  at  the 
clock,  making  for  the  door,  right.  The  serving- 
man  enters  with  telegram  and  newspaper.  Eckold 
steps  toward  him,  taking  the  telegram.  The  serv- 
ingman places  the  newspaper  on  the  table.'] 

EcKOLD  [opening  the  telegram].  From  Bet- 
tina. 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Clara  [goin^  up  to  him,  eagerly. 1  Oh,  al- 
ready? 

EcKOLD.     From  Bettina  and  Hugo,  of  course. 

{^Clara  reads  over  his  shoulder. ~\ 

EcKOLD.     From  Innsbruck. 

Clara.  They  didn't  squander  a  round  minute. 
Piled  into  a  cab  directly  after  the  wedding  supper 
and  whipped  to  the  station. 

EcKOLD.     Quite  a  sensible  idea,  that ! 

Clara  [reading^.  "  Tomorrow  Zurich.  Day 
after  tomorrow  we  expect  to  have  a  word  from 
you  at  Luzerne,  Palace  Hotel." 

EcKOLD.     "  A  thousand  regards." 

Clara.  The  identical  route  we  travelled 
twenty-two  years  ago.  Only  we  weren't  so  hot- 
foot to  reach  Innsbruck. 

EcKOLD  [without  twitching  a  muscle  of  his 
face'\.  Modern  tempo,  I  guess.  And  we  didn't 
stop  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  either. 

Clara.     It  wasn't  up  then. 

EcKOLD.     Even  if  it  had  been  — 

Clara.  It  was  glorious,  all  the  same  —  with- 
out the  Palace,  I  mean. 

EcKOLD.  Ah,  but  Bettina's  struck  better  luck 
than  you. 

Clara.     Now — [touching  his  arm  gently.] 

EcKOLD  [moving  away  from  her.  Alongside 
the  table,  nonchalantly  fluttering  the  newspaper]. 
I  don't  reproach  myself  in  any  way  when  I  affirm 
that.  A  paternal  million,  let  me  tell  you,  isn't  to 
be  ground  down  with  the  heel  of  one's  foot. 
Especially  when  the  stars  fight  in  their  courses  for 
you,  which  really  is  the  case  with  your  son-in-law. 
[Glancing  at  the  newspaper.]     Here's  something 

3 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


about  Ormin,  by  the  way  [reading']  *'  The  regu- 
lar sanitation  corps  under  the  leadership  of  Ru- 
dolph Ormin,  Royal  and  Imperial  Professor,  of 
the  Austrian  Red  Cross,  will  leave  Vienna  this 
evening  on  the  eight  twenty  express.  At  Trieste 
it  will  board  the  Austrian  Lloyd  liner  Amphitritef 
sailing  for  Japan,  and  thence  will  repair  to  the 
war  zone."  [He  holds  out  the  newspaper  to  her, 
scrutinizing  her  face  closely  as  she  peruses  the  coU 
umn,]     Not  bad  at  all,  that.     [Sits.] 

Clara  [still  standing].  You  ploughed  through 
something  of  the  sort  once. 

EcKOLD.  Bosnia — ?  There's  no  compari- 
son —  really. 

Clara.  But  it  was  a  kind  of  war,  wasn't 
it? 

EcKOLD.  Kind  of?  Not  merely  a  "  kind  of," 
but  a  bona  fide  war,  I  assure  you.  You  might 
have  gathered  that  from  my  diary.  I  let  you  read 
it  then.     Surely  you  remember? 

Clara  [laughing].     Certainly,  I  remember. 

EcKOLD.  From  the  steep  mountain  slopes  they 
fired  on  us  where  we  were  huddled  below.  Lit- 
tle heed  they  gave  to  the  Red  Cross.  Sanita- 
tion corps  or  no,  be  damned  to  youl  [Changing 
his  tone.]  Ah,  but  it's  jolly  good  going  through 
it  with  the  brevet  of  a  superior  —  like  Ormin,  for 
instance  I  At  the  time  I  was  only  a  callow  sur- 
geon. I  had  just  taken  my  degree.  Nowadays 
I  am  utterly  unqualified  for  such  an  undertaking. 
It  calls  for  more  elasticity  in  a  man,  more  ideal- 
ism, in  a  certain  sense,  more  youth. 

Clara.     Ormin  is  two  years  older  than  you. 

4 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

And,  moreover,  it's  rumored  his  heart's  not  per- 
fectly fit. 

EcKOLD.  But  it's  not  a  question  of  years,  not 
even  of  health.  What  keeps  one  in  good  fettle  is 
success,  recognition,  fame. 

Clara.  Perhaps  if  you  had  adopted  an  aca- 
demic career  — 

EcKOLD.  Oh,  of  course.  The  difference  in 
the  nature  of  our  endowments,  Ormin's  and  mine, 
isn't  so  big  that  you  can  notice  it.  It  was  due  to 
other  things.  Of  that  I  am  sure.  Over  and 
above  all  things  else,  Ormin  possesses  innate  gaiety 
of  spirit.  There's  the  rub.  The  spiritual  urge, 
as  it  were.  Then  you've  got  to  give  the  man 
credit  for  some  superficiality.  That's  an  attribute 
you  must  be  born  with.  It's  not  to  be  acquired, 
no  matter  how  hard  you  try. 

Clara.  Somehow  he  never  needed  to  drum  up 
a  practice. 

EcKOLD.  Neither  did  I.  Years  ago,  when  he 
and  I  were  young  physicians,  financially  he  was 
no  better  off  than  I.  No  better  off  than  I. 
What's  the  good  of  paltering  with  the  truth. 
Like  mine  in  all  respects,  his  lot  was  one  of  worri* 
ment  and  struggle. 

Clara.     Yes,  but  for  himself  alone. 

EcKOLD.  Of  course,  when  he  married  his  anx- 
ieties were  increased.  What  do  you  expect?  A 
good  deal  has  to  be  discounted  —  always.  Were 
he  to  die  one  of  these  days  Mrs.  Melanie  would 
not  be  so  wonderfully  provided  for. 

Clara.  Since  she's  not  legally  divorced,  she 
gets  her  allowance  just  the  same. 

5 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


EcKOLD.  Allowance  1  About  two  thousand 
crowns.  And  that,  as  you  know,  doesn't  go  a 
great  way  with  dear  Melanle.  She  used  to  spend 
as  much  as  that  on  gloves  and  hats  alone.  At 
least  that  was  — 

Clara.  Really,  I  think  she  was  maligned 
more  than  she  deserved.  Society  is  horribly 
stony-hearted  towards  the  wives  of  great  men. 

EcKOLD.  Great?  Pshaw.  You  mean,  fa- 
mous. Well,  thank  Heaven,  you're  spared  such 
treatment.  Now — [is  about  to  go  when  Pro- 
fessor Ormin  comes  in.  He  is  a  clean-shaven 
man  of  about  50,  with  a  haggard,  sharply-chiselled 
face.'] 

Ormin.  How  d'ye  do.  I  trust  sincerely  you 
haven't  waited  until  now  with  the  dinner.  \_Kisses 
the  tips  of  Clara^s  fingers  and  shakes  hands  with 
Eckold.] 

Ormin.     I've  dined  already,  thank  you. 

Clara.     You  must  take  a  cup  of  coffee  — 

Ormin.  Thanks.  Don't  let  me  put  you  out, 
though.  [Clara  rings  and  gives  an  order  to  the 
maid  who  has  entered.] 

EcKOLD.  Delighted  to  see  you  once  again  be- 
fore you  leave.  This  evening,  eh  ?  And  then  on 
the  Amphitritef 

Ormin.     Yes. 

EcKOLD.  Here  'tis  in  the  paper.  Ah,  but 
you're  going  to  have  a  fine  passage.  In  June  — 
by  the  by,  when  do  you  expect  to  be  at  the  front  — 
on  duty,  I  mean. 

Ormin.  In  four  weeks.  But  I  think  it'll  take 
us  considerably  longer  to  get  to  the  actual  war 
zone. 

6 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

EcKOLD.  Who  knows,  old  man,  but  all  may 
be  settled  before  you  arrive. 

Ormin.  Settled?  Why,  it's  scarcely  begun. 
And  judging  from  all  appearances,  things  will  be 
rather  long  drawn  out.  [The  maid  brings  the 
coffee  and  Clara  pours  it  into  the  cup.  The  maid 
goes  out.l 

EcKOLD.     Are  you  taking  an  assistant  along? 

Ormin.  Yes,  Marenzeller.  Kleinert's  picked 
to  take  my  place  in  the  clinic.  [Sipping  his  cof- 
fee.] Do  you  know  who's  sailing  with  us? 
Guess.  On  the  Amphitrite,  too.  Our  good  old 
friend,  Floding. 

EcKOLD.  Floding?  I  suppose  he's  aged  a 
good  deal.  Grown  virtuous,  has  he  ?  Not  likely, 
I  guess.  Virtue  as  a  rule  is  more  elusive  than 
age. 

Clara.  In  what  capacity  is  Floding  going  to 
Japan? 

EcKOLD.     In  the  capacity  of  correspondent  — 

Ormin.  Yes,  for  the  Rhenish  News.  So  he 
writes  me. 

Clara.     You  keep  in  touch  with  him  ? 

Ormin.  Not  very  regularly.  But  since  last 
summer,  when  we  were  accidentally  thrown  so 
much  in  each  other's  company  —  after  many  years 
—  I've  already  told  you  all  about  it. 

Clara.  Nowadays  we  never  hear  from  him. 
If  you  hadn't  brought  his  respects  from  Helgo- 
land— 

Eckold.  What's  he  going  to  write  us  for? 
It's  ten  years  now  that  he  left  Vienna. 

Ormin.  He  refers  to  you  habitually  as  one  of 
his  closest  friends. 

7; 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


EcKOLD.  Friends?  [Pause.]  I  doubt  whether 
I  really  owned  a  friend.     Perhaps  —  you. 

Ormin.  Oh,  a  good  many.  Possibly  you 
make  overstrict  demands. 

EcKOLD.  Why  make  demands  at  all?  Sel- 
dom, if  ever,  are  any  of  them  met. 

Ormin  [jestingly  to  Clara}.  What's  come 
over  your  husband,  eh?  [Recollecting.]  Oh, 
yes;  his  daughterkin.  By  God,  I  miss  her,  too. 
Have  you  had  a  line  from  her  yet?  No?  It's 
hardly  likely  so  soon. 

Clara.  We  received  a  telegram  just  this  min- 
ute. 

EcKOLD.     From  Innsbruck. 

Clara.  Tomorrow  they  reach  Zurich,  day 
after  tomorrow  Luzerne. 

Ormin.  And  in  the  course  of  three  weeks,  I 
suppose,  you  will  welcome  her  back  home. 

Clara.  Unfortunately,  no.  After  the  honey- 
moon they  plan  to  move  to  Berlin. 

Ormin.  Indeed.  Is  Wormann  needed  that 
bad  in  Berlin? 

EcKOLD.  Yes,  now  that  his  predecessor  has 
been  appointed  Professor  Extraordinary  to  Bres- 
lau  — 

Ormin.  Quite  so.  Oh,  he'll  carve  out  a  rip- 
ping career  for  himself,  your  son-in-law  will. 
With  twenty-eight  assistants  at  the  Physiological 
Institute  —  and  highly  deserving  of  it  all,  let  me 
add. 

Clara.  I  see  no  reason  why  it  couldn't  be  over 
here  just  as  well. 

Ormin.  After  all,  the  distance  between  Ber- 
lin and  Vienna  isn't  so  great. 

8 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Clara.  Just  fancy  I  Day  before  yesterday 
she  sat  here  with  us.  For  seventeen  years  she  sat 
in  the  self-same  place.  [Pause.]  Dear  me  I 
All  these  sentimental  after-thoughts,  I'm  afraid, 
won't  help  a  bit.     But  the  wrench  is  —  so  deep! 

Ormln.  I  never  thought  you'd  take  it  to  heart 
this  way.  All  fathers  and  mothers  must  steel 
themselves  against  this  sort  of  thing. 

Clara.  Of  what  use  is  your  steeling  yourself 
against  it? 

EcKOLD.  Yes,  of  what  use?  It's  infinitely 
better  to  have  no  children  at  all. 

Clara  [almost  frightened].  What  a  thing  to 
say  I 

EcKOLD  [impenetrably'}.     I  say  it  again. 

Ormin  [tactfully].  Well — [Pause].  Now 
what  else  did  I  want  to  tell  you  ?  Oh,  yes.  One 
of  the  nurses  of  the  Red  Cross  accompanying  my 
expedition  is  —  don't  start  I  —  Madame  Melanie 
Ormin. 

Clara.     Ah  I 

EcKOLD.     Your  wife  ? 

Ormin.     My  —  wife  that  was,  yes. 

EcKOLD.  Old  man,  sure  as  fate,  you're  go- 
ing to  come  back  with  all  your  differences  patched 
up. 

Ormin.     Not  a  bit  of  it. 

Clara.  Don't  forget  to  remember  me  to  Me- 
lanie, when  you  see  her. 

Ormin.  You  are  kindly  disposed  to  her,  aren't 
you? 

Clara.  We  always  got  along  very  nicely  to- 
gether.    You  know  that. 

EcKOLD.     Please    remember   me,    too.     And 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


don't  omit  Floding,  either.  You  can  tell  him  from 
me  it's  a  symptom  of  ungratefulness  not  to  let 
himself  be  heard  from,  especially  after  such  a  bully 
friendship  as  he  claims  existed  between  us. 

Ormin.  You  demand,  my  dear  Carl,  more 
than  you  give.  Why,  you've  chucked  him  on  your 
own  account.     What  do  you  expect? 

Clara.     But,  really,  he  liked  him. 

EcKOLD.  Liked  him?  You  exaggerate.  He 
interested  me.  Quite  an  amusing  cut-up,  he  was. 
Wicked  and  sentimental. 

Ormin.  Not  such  an  odd  combination,  by  a 
long  shot.  That  is,  as  far  as  wags  who  are  nig- 
gardly endowed  go. 

EcKOLD.  Niggardly  endowed?  You  mean 
his  halt  foot.  Ah,  but  don't  you  see  that's  why  he 
was  vouchsafed  such  beautiful  blue  eyes. 

Ormin.  It's  hardly  the  most  striking  paradox 
in  his  make-up.  What's  worse,  is  the  fact  that  he 
possesses  a  poetical  soul,  coupled  with  not  an 
ounce  of  poetic  talent.  That  kind  of  thing  spells 
the  ruin  of  a  man. 

Clara.  I  remember  several  lovely  poems  he 
wrote  once. 

Ormin.  Up  to  a  certain  age  nobody  objects 
strenuously  to  that.  But,  you  see,  he  persists  in 
turning  them  out  still.  Last  summer  —  just  to 
cite  an  instance  —  he  recited  several  to  me. 

Clara.     Well? 

Ormin.  The  surf  was  simply  deafening.  I 
must  beg  to  be  excused  from  any  criticism.  {^En- 
ter serving  man  with  a  card.'] 

EcKOLD  [taking  the  card].  Excuse  me. 
Praxis  aurea,  you  know.     Don't  go  until  I  return. 

lO 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Ormin.  Can't  promise  that  I'll  stay  that  long, 
Carl.  I've  got  to  attend  to  several  things  before 
my  departure. 

EcKOLD.  Won't  you  keep  my  wife  company 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so?  Call  me  when 
you're  going.  Now  don't  take  yourself  off  unciv- 
illy.    Well,  auf  wiedersehen.     [Goes  out  right. ^ 

Clara  [breaking  in  suddenlyl.  This  is  nice, 
Melanie's  sailing  with  you  that  way! 

Ormin.  Not  with  me.  It  just  happens  that 
she's  a  member  of  the  party. 

Clara.  Well,  if  it  weren't  for  you  the  idea 
would  never  have  occurred  to  her. 

Ormin.  It's  idle  to  conjecture  about  that. 
It's  bewildering  all  the  things  she's  put  her  hand 
to,  and  carried  through,  too,  since  we  separated. 

Clara.  Has  she  been  living  in  Vienna  re- 
cently? 

Ormin.  Yes,  and  quite  an  age  for  her.  Just 
fancy  only  three  months  ago  she  returned  from 
Madeira,  where  I  understood  she  kept  a  foreign 
pension. 

Clara.  I  was  under  the  Impression  she  had 
tried  her  luck  in  America. 

Ormin.  Quite  an  old  story,  that.  Do  you 
know  that  she  was  on  the  stage  over  there? 
Played  in  English,  mind  you.  It  came  to  my  ears 
only  the  other  day.  She  seems  to  have  been  tre- 
mendously versatile  In  her  way. 

Clara.  Quite  a  remarkable  creature,  I  must 
say.     Perhaps  you  will  be  happy  with  her  yet. 

Ormin.     I  — 

Clara.  Fifteen  years  ago  you  may  have  been 
unfit  for  married  life. 

II 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Ormin.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  always  fit. 
Only  I  didn't  happen  to  meet  the  right  woman. 
[Simply. 1  I  made  her  acquaintance  —  several 
years  too  late. 

Clara  [smiling'}'  You'd  have  tired  of  the 
right  woman  just  as  you  did  of  Melanie. 

Ormin.  Why  do  you  think  so?  I  did  not 
tire  of  Melanie.  That's  a  mistaken  notion  of 
yours.  We  just  —  Melanie  and  I  —  after  a  cer- 
tain period  took  to  making  separate  trips.  Objec- 
tively, I  know,  it  has  the  appearance  of  tiring  of 
one  another.  But  it  wasn't  my  fault.  I  am  very 
strong  for  marital  fidelity.  At  least  I  am  sure  of 
this  much:  I  was  destined  to  the  domestic  sphere. 
More  so  than  Carl,  for  instance. 

Clara.     More  so  than  Carl  —  you? 

Ormin.  Certainly.  In  him,  lurking  deep 
within,  there  broods  a  suggestion  of  the  out-and- 
out  undomestic  creature.  Yes,  the  genius  of  the 
philanderer. 

Clara  [smilin^l.     In  Carl? 

Ormin.  Yes,  in  your  husband,  the  practicing 
physician,  whose  consultation  hours  are  between 
three  and  four. 

Clara  [shaking  her  head  incredulously'].  Do 
you  call  yourself  a  student  of  human  nature? 

Ormin.  Knowledge  of  human  nature  is  an 
assumption  for  the  most  part.  Not  always  accu- 
rate nor  pleasant,  either.  But,  quite  seriously,  we 
have  lived,  both  of  us  —  he  and  I  —  at  deepest 
odds  with  our  innermost  selves.  For  I  have 
yearned  all  my  life  long  for  repose,  spiritual  re- 
pose. Had  I  achieved  it,  I  dare  say,  I'd  have 
made  a  bigger  man  of  myself. 

12 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Clara.     You  ought  to  be  content. 

Ormin.  Content?  Are  you  thinking  of  what 
the  world  calls  my  career  ?  reople  look  up  to  me 
as  a  physician,  as  a  professor,  even  —  as  if  all  that 
mattered  the  least  bit  I  Under  more  favorable 
circumstances  than  I  have  been  heir  to,  I  might 
have  accomplished  greater  things. 

Clara.     Under  more  favorable  — ? 

Ormin.  Well,  suppose  we  put  it  this  way: 
In  the  peaceful  atmosphere  of  a  veritable  home. 
Please  don't  think  me  mawkish.  I  have  always 
craved  for  that  sort  of  thing,  but  somehow  it  was 
appointed  far  otherwise. 

Clara.  Ah,  but  I  can  read  a  purpose  in  the 
fact  that  it  was  appointed  otherwise. 

Ormin.  A  purpose?  I  doubt  it,  Clara.  I 
doubt  it  because  I  know  exactly  where,  under  more 
auspicious  circumstances,  I  might  have  found  the 
repose  I  sought  in  vain.  [/«  a  more  ardent,  hut 
a  quite  simple  tone  of  voice. "l  We  both  know 
only  too  well,  Clara,  you  and  1. 

Clara  [gently  shaking  her  head"].  What  a 
mad  notion  of  yours  I 

Ormin.  Before  saying  good-bye,  I  thought  I 
might  be  permitted  to  call  it  to  mind. 

Clara.     But  not  to  utter  it. 

Ormin  [earnestly  but  not  heavily"].  When  you 
feel  as  I  do,  that  you  have  never  uttered  the  right 
words,  and  that  the  occasion  will  not  present  itself 
soon  again  — 

Clara  [smiling,  but  averting  her  gaze"].  I 
hope,  Ormin,  you  entertain  no  sinister  presenti- 
ments. 

Ormin.     Presentiments?    Up  to  the  present 

13 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


IVe  not  gone  far  afield  when  I  weighed  probabil- 
ities strictly  in  the  balance. 

Clara.  But  I  have  no  presentiments  what- 
ever. And  I  feel,  in  fact  I  know  —  nothing  will 
happen  to  you. 

Ormin.  I'm  not  afraid.  Bear  in  mind:  no- 
body forced  me  to  plunge  headlong  into  the  war 
and  plague  regions.  The  sealed  purposes  of 
Providence,  however,  are  made  more  apparent  to 
a  man  of  my  stripe  from  year  to  year. 

Clara.     You  are  still  young. 

Ormin.  I?  Ah,  but  you  can  say  that  more 
truthfully  of  Carl  than  of  me. 

Clara.     Of  course  you  can  say  it  of  Carl  too. 

Ormin.  He  has  preserved  himself  better  than 
I.  His  face  is  just  as  youthful  as  when  he  was  an 
undergraduate.  All  around,  he's  had  better  luck 
than  I. 

Clara  Ismilinffl.  In  spite  of  his  philandering 
instinct? 

Ormin  [continuing  earnestly^.  I  daresay  in 
his  profession  too. 

Clara.  Surely  you  don't  envy  him  that,  do 
you? 

Ormin.  Why  not?  Is  my  calling  on  a  higher 
plane?  Sometimes  an  uncanny  feeling  seizes  me 
when  I  am  called  to  an  unknown  family  and  in- 
troduced—  not  to  a  human  being,  but  to  an  ail- 
ing stomach.  Eckold  at  least  gets  to  know  his  pa- 
tients. 

Clara.     Nothing  enviable  in  that  — 

Ormin  [interruptingl.  Yes,  Clara,  the  lot  of 
a  consulting  physician  has  quite  a  peculiar  charm. 
Especially  when,  as  in  Carl's  case,  you  enjoy  a 

14 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

good  measure  of  the  normal  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness. 

Clara.     Do  you  consider  Carl  a  kind  man? 

Ormin.  H'ml  That's  a  posing  question. 
Kind?  Of  course,  he  is  kind.  Every  one  of  us 
is  that,  more  or  less.  But  kindly — ?  I  don't 
know  whether  you  follow  me.  True  kindness  or 
goodness  is  a  rare  and  noble  quality.  I  think  one 
may  even  commit  crimes  in  goodness,  one  may 
even  sin  — 

Clara.  Good  people  would  never  think  of  do- 
ing that. 

Ormin.  You  are  quite  right.  Good  people, 
at  their  best,  never  transcend  petty  meannesses. 

Clara  [laughing'\.  That  —  why,  that  might 
have  been  said  by  Floding. 

Ormin.  You  think  so?  Then,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I  prefer  to  take  it  back. 

Clara  [somewhat  taken  aback].  Our  old 
friend,  it  appears,  has  not  succeeded  in  winning 
your  goodwill. 

Ormin.  Last  summer  we  were  thrown  to- 
gether every  single  day.  And  in  vacations  people 
betray  themselves  more  than  ordinarily. 

Clara.  Perhaps  it  was  just  a  game  of  his  to 
appear  other  than  he  is.  It's  like  Floding.  If 
you  saw  him  In  his  true  likeness,  then  he  must  have 
altered  a  good  deal. 

Ormin.  A  man  doesn't  alter,  Clara.  He 
may  disguise  himself,  he  may  dazzle  others  —  at 
times  himself.  But  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  his 
soul  he  is  unalterably  the  same. 

Clara.  If  one  only  knew  where  the  deepest 
recesses  of  the  soul  are  situated. 

IS 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Ormin.  There  you  have  it.  Exactly.  That's 
why  we  are  always  the  same.  But  I  might  hazard 
a  guess,  they  are  probably  situated  where  our  sub- 
conscious wishes  slumber  or  give  the  appearance 
of  slumbering. 

Clara.  In  the  last  analysis,  Ormin,  nothing 
matters  —  nothing  but  the  deed  we  have  accom- 
plished ;  that  which  we  have  undergone  in  life,  not 
that  which  we  have  desired  or  yearned  for. 

Ormin.  Quite  so,  Clara.  And  we  can  know 
mighty  little  about  a  person  as  long  as  his  real  fea- 
tures are  screened  behind  the  mist  of  his  so-called 
daily  affairs. 

(Jlara  [smiling'] .  And  you  would  have  me  be- 
lieve that  your  gaze  pierces  this  mist? 

Ormin  [earnestly].  Sometimes.  And  by  vir- 
tue of  this  penetration,  for  instance,  the  adven- 
titious circumstance  that  you  happen  to  go  through 
life  in  the  guise  of  the  wife  of  my  old  chum,  Carl 
Eckold,  hasn't  blinded  me  to  the  truth,  namely, 
deep,  deep  within,  Clara,  you  possess  the  soul  of 
one  who  dares  all  for  love. 

Clara  [growing  pale].  One  who  dares  all 
for  love  I  [Smiling.]  You  flatter  me  exceed- 
ingly. I  love  Carl,  quite  naturally.  I  have  al- 
ways loved  him.  But  beyond  that  there's  nothing 
extraordinary  about  it. 

Ormin  [earnestly].  You  know  very  well 
that's  not  what  I  was  driving  at. 

Clara  [with  equal  seriousness].  I  have  never 
coveted  any  other  lot.  Never.  I  think  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  of  myself,  with  justice,  that 
I  have  adorned,  as  far  as  lay  in  my  power,  the 
busy  and  preoccupied  life  of  one  who  was  dearer 

i6 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

to  me  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  It  wasn't 
at  all  times  an  easy  task.  But,  thank  Heaven,  I 
recognized  it  as  my  mission. 

Ormin.  Yes.  I  can  well  believe  that.  For 
Carl  had  need  of  you. 

Clara.     As  I  had  need  of  him. 

Ormin.  Is  this  true,  Clara?  Were  you  al- 
ways convinced  that  Carl  Eckold,  and  no  one  else, 
constituted  the  meaning  and  end  of  your  life? 

Clara  [tartly^.  He  and  Bettina.  Yes,  if  you 
wish  to  put  it  that  way ;  the  meaning  and  the  end. 

Ormin.     I  beg  pardon,  then. 

Clara.     Quite  unnecessary,  I  assure  you. 

Ormin.  Today,  you  see,  I  don't  care  to  play 
cocksure.  I  can't  say :  Well,  until  tomorrow  or 
after  tomorrow,  dear  lady. 

Clara  \_laughing'].  Why  not  six  months 
hence,  then? 

Ormin  [as  gently  as  possibW].  Let  us  hope 
so.  [He  starts  to  go,  hut  hesitates  at  a  move' 
ment  of  hers.]  Oh,  please  don't  break  in  on  Carl. 
We've  said  good-bye  already.  And,  with  all  due 
respect  for  him,  the  latest  impression  I  wish  to 
leave  with  you — [interrupts  himself.  Simply.'] 
Good-bye,  Clara. 

Clara.  Good-bye.  [They  meet  at  the  door. 
He  clasps  her  hand.] 

Clara.     Ormin  I 

Ormin.     Clara  I 

Clara.  You  wear  an  air  of  having  omitted 
something  —  through  oversight. 

Ormin  [waveringly].  Omitted?  Who  has 
not? 

Clara.     In  this  connection,  Ormin,  let  me  al- 

17 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


lay  your  apprehensions  before  you  go,  at  least  as 
regards  myself  —  I  pledge  my  word,  dear  friend, 
you  have  no  cause  to  revile  yourself  for  anything. 

Ormin.     I  can't  quite  make  out  — 

Clara.  Assuming  that  way  back  —  ten  years 
ago,  is  it  not?  —  you  had  proved  more  tumultuous 
or  more  skillful  in  your  manoeuvering,  well,  you'd 
never  have  corralled  me  into  your  collection. 

Ormin.  H'm.  Really,  I  don't  see  why  you 
try  by  this  meticulous  choice  of  words  — 

Clara.  Oh,  I  don't  doubt,  I'd  have  turned 
out  a  rare  specimen.  No.  But  it  could  never 
have  been.  Quite  otherwise  was  it  decreed.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you :  I  loved  you. 

Ormin  [after  a  brief  pause}.  Oh  I  Oh! 
What  a  wretched  simpleton  I  was ! 

Clara  [laughing  low].  You  do  yourself  rank 
injustice.  It  didn't  depend  on  you  altogether. 
Had  I  loved  you  less  than  I  did,  I'd  have  flung 
myself  into  your  arms  —  perhaps.  But  you  were 
more  to  me  than  a  mere  lover.  You  had  sud- 
denly taken  the  shape  of  my  destiny.  For  this 
reason  it  could  never  have  come  to  pass.  And 
you  were  not  only  my  destiny  — 

Ormin.  What  did  it  matter?  I  tell  you,  hap- 
piness would  have  been  ours,  Clara.  How  many 
people  can  say  that?  Happiness  I  Yours  and 
mine. 

Clara.  For  six  months  going,  maybe  a  year. 
And  even  in  that  brief  time  it  would  not  have  been 
vouchsafed  to  us  unmixed. 

Ormin.  We  might  have  purified  it.  Drained 
off  the  dross,  sooner  or  later. 

Clara.    Never. 

i8 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Ormin.     Bettina? 

Clara.     Not  for  Bettlna's  sake  alone. 

Ormin.  For  him?  What  was  he  to  you  — 
then? 

Clara.  What  was  he  to  me?  What  he  has 
always  been.  What  he  has  remained  to  this  day 
—  to  this  very  day.  I  didn't  realize  so  clearly  as 
at  that  moment  that  my  proper  place  was  here  — 
that  I  belonged  utterly  to  him.  Never  till  that 
moment,  Ormin. 

Ormin.     Why  just  that  moment? 

Clara.     Never  before  was  I  so  sure  of  myself. 

Ormin.  Forgive  me,  but,  if  my  memory 
doesn't  deceive  me,  your  relations  with  Carl,  at 
that  time,  left  much  to  be  desired.  [Clara  gazes 
at  him  astonished.~\  Oh,  a  blind  man  would  have 
noticed  that.  There's  no  more  transparent  stuff 
than  that  which  matrimony  is  made  of.  At  a 
pinch  the  individual  can  disguise  himself,  but  in 
the  sphere  of  human  relationships  masquerade  is 
impossible. 

Clara  [after  a  brief  hesitation^.  We  were 
estranged  at  the  time,  if  that's  what  you're  aim- 
ing at.  I  won't  attempt  to  dissemble.  But  de- 
spite that,  indeed,  for  that  very  reason — [inter- 
rupting herself,  then  more  ardently. '\  You  will 
never  understand  I  You've  never  conceived  what 
marriage  means  —  what  marriage  under  certain 
circumstances  may  grow  to  mean.  You've  no 
idea  of  a  year-in,  year-out  pull  together  —  and 
ours  was  a  long  puU  together!  What  links  are 
wrought,  stronger  than  anything  else  which  pas- 
sion can  forge  between  one  man  and  one  woman  1 

19 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Notwithstanding  all  the  tugging  and  gnawing,  the 
link  holds  firm.  The  couple  belong  to  one  an- 
other beyond  recall.  And  one  feels  this  all  the 
more  keenly  — 

Ormin.     When  one  chafes  burningly  to  part. 

Clara.  Do  you  appreciate  the  truth  of  your 
words?  In  the  midst  of  black  distrust  and  pangs, 
the  two  people  belong  to  one  another  just  the  same 
—  and  later  on,  more  irrevocably,  more  inescap- 
ably by  reason  of  their  mutual  devotion  and  ten- 
derness. I  hadn't  the  courage  to  leave  him. 
Then  less  than  ever.  Do  you  follow  me  now? 
\^with  a  soft  smile'].  All  your  overtures,  as  you 
see,  would  have  fallen  short.  And  so,  when  all's 
said,  you've  no  grounds  to  reproach  yourself. 

Ormin.  Whether  I  follow  you  or  not  — 
what's  the  odds  today?  But  that  you  should  tell 
it  to  me  now  — 

Clara  [without  looking  at  himl.  I  had  to, 
Ormin,  sooner  or  later. 

Ormin  [very  softly"].  You  seem  to  be  in 
doubt  whether  we  shall  meet  again  —  here  or  else- 
where. 

Clara  [tumultuously].  Please  don't  carry 
away  a  spurious  image  of  me  — 

Ormin.     Into  eternity. 

Clara.     Into  the  far-away. 

Ormin.  It  makes  you  happy  thinking  I  shajl 
carry  into  the  far-away  the  image  of  a  saint,  rather 
than  that  of  a  woman  — 

Clara.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  saint.  That 
description  fits  me  much  less  than  the  other. 

Ormin.  Let's  not  attach  too  much  weight  to 
mere  words. 

20 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Clara.  For  my  part  you  may  attach  to  them 
whatever  weight  you  like.  I  come  equally  short 
of  sainthood  as  I  do  of  the  passion  of  the  woman 
who  dares  all  for  love.  Believe  me,  I  am  a  mere 
woman,  like  hundreds  and  thousands  of  other 
women.  Perhaps  no  worse,  but  certainly  no  bet- 
ter, f 

Ormin.  That  sounds  as  if — ^approaching 
her."]     Is  there  yet  another  secret,  Clara? 

Clara.  None  whatever  for  you,  Ormin,  in 
this  hour. 

Ormin.     None — ? 

Clara.     None. 

Ormin.     Do  I  follow  you  rightly,  Clara? 

Clara.     Certainly. 

Ormin.     Still  it's  a  secret  — \^pause.'\ 

Clara.     A  name  — ?    Does  that  signify? 

Ormin.     I  am  not  inquisitive. 

Clara.  Life  is  full  of  strange  coincidences, 
Ormin.  Tomorrow  at  this  hour  you  will  be  stroll- 
ing up  and  down  the  deck  of  the  Amphitrite  in 
his  company — - 

Ormin.  In  his — ?  What's  that  you  say? 
In  his  —  why,  it's  — 

Clara.     Yes. 

Ormin.  If  that  is  so,  then  there  was  no  chance 
of  its  ever  turning  into  destiny  for  you. 

Clara.  Why  do  you  askr  [Glancing  mean- 
ingly  about  the  room.^     Here  is  your  answer. 

Ormin.  I  mean  a  chance  that  you  could  not 
possibly  foresee. 

Clara.     Perhaps  there  was  none. 

Ormin.  You  will  never  convince  me,  Clara, 
that  you  plunged  cold-bloodedly  into  an  affair  of 

21 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


this  ilk.     There  must  be  some  reason  why  it  was 
just  he  — 

Clara.  Hurt  vanity  I  It's  just  like  a  man  to 
seek  an  explanation  of  a  commonplace  affair  of  this 
sort,  if  he  happens  not  to  have  been  the  — 

Ormin.     Lucky  fellow. 

Clara.     The  lucky  fellow? 

Ormin.     You  must  have  loved  him? 

Clara.     I  don't  mean  to  deny  it. 

Ormin.     More  than  you  loved  me? 

Clara  {laughing  involuntarilyl.  Less  than 
you. 

Ormin.  And  yet,  will  you  say,  that  he  never 
could  have  been  your  destiny?  He  too  might 
have  been  that.  It  would  have  been  beyond  your 
strength  to  resist  if  he  had  clung  to  you,  if  he  had 
not  released  you,  if  he  had  claimed  what  was  his 
due  — 

Clara.  Due?  He  claimed  no  more  than  I 
was  ready  to  grant  him.  Life  had  not  pampered 
him  like  some  of  the  others. 

Ormin  [softly,  to  himself} .  Like  some  of  the 
others. 

Clara.  He  was  always  lonesome  —  from 
childhood.  He  never  knew  the  quiet  of  a  father's 
house. 

Ormin.  And,  that  being  the  case,  you  could 
pose  as  something  of  a  sister  and  mother  — 

Clara.     We  were  lovers. 

Ormin  \_still  simply"].  And  you  were  the  first 
heavenly  ray  to  penetrate  a  lugubrious  existence.  . 

Clara.     I  was. 

Ormin.  Well,  I  must  say,  you  had  good  rea- 
son to  nourish  the  delusion. 

22 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

Clara.  That's  what  I  was  to  him.  Per- 
haps I  was  more  than  mere  happiness  in  his  life. 
I  don't  know  the  kind  of  man  life  has  made  of 
him  today.  It  cannot  have  offered  him  all  that 
he  hoped  for,  all  that  perhaps  he  sought.  But  I 
know  the  man  he  was  then.  You,  Ormin,  did  not 
know  him.  No.  In  fact,  nobody  knew  him. 
Who  troubled  to  peer  into  that  cynical  and  solitary 
soul?  I  alone  did.  That  is  why  I,  of  all  peo- 
ple, can  mean  anything  to  him.  And  at  the  time 
I  was  the  whole  world  to  him  —  and  without  jeop- 
ardizing the  calm  of  a  third  person  concerned. 

Ormin.     After  all,  it  was  an  escapade. 

Clara.     Escapade  ? 

Ormin.  An  affair.  Fortunately,  it  came  at  a 
time  when  you  were  ripe  for  it. 

Clara  [shakingi  her  head'\.  I  foresaw  it. 
[Ormin  gazes  quizzically  into  her  face.'\  You 
make  out  my  real  features  behind  the  mist.  You 
discern  them  all.  Everything  is  as  you  have  said. 
Behind  the  mist  of  sensations  and  impressions  is 
limned  the  true  image  of  what  I  am  in  my  deepest 
self.  [After  a  light  soh."]  I  shouldn't  have  told 
you,  Ormin. 

Ormin.  Do  you  regret,  Clara?  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you.  It  is  so  beautiful,  so  splendid  that  you 
—  that  both  of  us  in  this  hour  should  have  been 
able  to  speak  out  at  last. 

Clara.     Are  we  quite  sure — ? 

Ormin.     Clara  1 

Clara.  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  If  it 
were  only  a  question  of  words  I 

Ormin.  We  will  forget  the  words.  Nothing 
depends  on  them.     They  are  only  — 

23 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


[Eckold  comes  in  from  the  ri^ht."] 

EcKOLD.     Eh,  still  here  ?     Good  I 

Clara.     I  was  just  about  to  call  you. 

Ormin  [ready  to  leave'}.     Dear  chap  — 

EcKOLD.     Thanks  awfully  for  waiting. 

Ormin.     I  must  say  goodbye  now. 

EcKOLD.  No  use  keeping  you  any  longer. 
Once  more,  bon  voyage  — 

[They  shake  hands.}  Don't  you  know,  Ormin 
—  no  sense  in  hiding  it  from  you  at  this  stage  — 
I  sort  of  envy  you. 

Ormin.  You  do?  Well,  why  not  come 
along?  Give  up  your  practice  for  a  few  months 
and  join  us. 

EcKOLD.  What  would  I  do?  Surgery's  not 
in  my  line. 

Ormin.  That  makes  no  bones.  I  guess  we 
can  handle  the  epidemic  well  enough.  No  red 
herring  there  for  you,  is  there  ? 

EcKOLD.  Going's  out  of  the  question,  even  if 
it  tempted  me.  I'm  the  sort  of  person  who  never 
gets  beyond  the  wishing  stage. 

Ormin  [/o  Clara}.  Isn't  he  a  little  unjust  to 
himself  ? 

Clara.  That's  what  I  keep  telling  him  some- 
times. 

EcKOLD.  Well  [pause} — good  luck.  Cure 
them  by  the  thousands.  And,  mind  you,  come 
back  whole  yourself. 

Ormin.  I  hope  for  the  best.  Well,  adieu. 
Think  of  me  sometimes.  Auf  wiedersehen, 
Clara.  [He  extends  his  hand  and  goes.}  Si- 
lence.} [Eckold  glances  at  the  clock  and  rings, 
Servingman  enters.} 

24 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

EcKOLD.     Has  anyone  else  come  in  since? 

Servingman.     No,  sir. 

EcKOLD.     Cab  gone  off  yet? 

Servingman  [gioinff  to  window^.  Not  yet,  sir. 
[Exit.] 

Clara.  It's  only  half-past  five.  [She  goes  to 
the  window.  Eckold  seats  himself  and  takes  the 
newspaper.] 

Clara  [turning  toward  him].  You  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  me. 

Eckold.     It  will  wait  till  tomorrow. 

Clara.  About  Bettina,  isn't  it?  Family  in- 
heritance ?  Any  difficulties  ?  You  were  to  the  no- 
tary's today. 

Eckold.  Yes.  The  affair  of  the  inheritance 
is  going  very  smoothly.  In  a  week  or  two  every- 
thing will  be  adjusted.  In  any  case,  Bettina  won't 
stick  at  a  trifle.  But  —  I  wanted  to  ask  you ;  you 
long  for  her  very  much,  don't  you? 

Clara.    And  you  ? 

Eckold.  Goes  without  saying.  But  I  —  I 
have  my  profession.  You,  I  daresay,  will  find  it 
harder  getting  used  to  her  being  away. 

Clara.     I  was  prepared  for  it. 

Eckold.  Even  so.  Your  whole  life,  at  least 
during  the  past  year,  was  wrapped  up  in  Bettina. 
And  you  will  feel  an  empty  gap  now. 

Clara  [forcing  a  smile].  Oh,  but  there  are 
heaps  of  things  to  distract  one. 

Eckold  [staring  straight  ahead].  At  all 
events.  If  you  care  to  go  over  to  Berlin  —  don't 
trouble  about  me.  Go.  [Clara  gazes  at  him 
astonished.] 

Eckold.     I  won't  object  at  all.    Less  so,  con- 

25 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


sidering  that  Bettina  is  no  longer  with  us,  and 
there  is  no  further  need  of  our  living  together  now. 

Clara.     You  amaze  me. 

EcKOLD.     What  amazes  you  ? 

Clara  [portraying  growing  astonishment^. 
You  want  to  —  you  mean  I  should  go  away  to 
Berlin? 

EcKOLD.  Merely  a  suggestion.  Of  course, 
we  will  have  to  canvass  the  details.  But  all  things 
considered,  I  believe  — 

Clara.  What  can  this  mean?  What  sudden 
idea  is  this? 

EcKOLD.  Sudden?  It  only  looks  that  way  to 
you.  Until  now  I  didn't  mention  it.  The  time 
wasn't  ripe  for  it.  I  like  to  talk  about  things  only 
when  they  have  become,  in  a  measure,  realizable. 
But  let  me  assure  you  it's  an  old  notion  of  mine 
that  after  Bettina's  marriage  it  might  be  a  good 
thing  to  give  up  living  together. 

Clara.     Living  to  — 

EcKOLD.  Yes.  Quite  an  old  notion  • —  a  cher- 
ished notion,  I  might  say.  Let  me  see ;  I  can  tell 
you  exactly  how  old  it  is  —  even  to  the  very  day 
it  first  struck  me.  It's  ten  years  now.  Last  May 
it  was  ten  years  to  a  day.     Do  you  follow  me  ? 

[He  stands  directly  opposite  her.  They  eye 
each  other  closely.     Pause."] 

Clara.  You  mean  that  for  ten  whole  years 
you  kept  silent? 

EcKOLD.  Yes.  For  ten  whole  years.  But 
I'm  not  making  a  bid  for  your  admiration.  One 
must  only  be  certain  about  what  one  wants.  And 
I  was  certain.  To  trouble  the  outward  calm  of 
our  existence,  to  bring  about  a  deep-rooted  re- 

26 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

vulslon  of  our  life-relationship,  while  our  daugh- 
ter was  still  living  under  the  roof  of  her  parents 
would  have  been  highly  impractical,  not  to  say  im- 
moral. And  it  would  be  just  as  immoral  if  we 
continued  living  together  in  our  old  way  now  that 
Bettina's  gone. 

Clara.     Youkept  silent  ten  whole  years? 

EcKOLD.  I  knew  to-day  had  to  come.  In- 
deed, I  lived  in  anticipation  of  it. 

Clara.  Ten  years  you  have  waited  for  to- 
day ?  I  can't  bring  myself  to  believe  it.  I  credit 
no  man  with  such  self-control,  least  of  all  you, 
Carl. 

EcKOLD.  You  have  always  underrated  me. 
That  I  know.  Both  of  you  have  underrated  me. 
[Pause.^ 

Clara.     Why  didn't  you  send  me  away  then? 

EcKOLD.  With  equal  right  I  might  ask: 
Why  didn't  you  go  away  of  your  own  accord? 

Clara.  I  can  answer  that  very  easily.  Be- 
cause I  held  this  to  be  my  home.  Because  this  was 
my  home,  no  matter  what  had  happened. 

EcKOLD.  That  view  has  its  advantages,  no 
doubt,  especially  its  extraordinary  convenience. 

Clara.     It  was  your  view  too. 

EcKOLD.     Oh  -— 

Clara.  Yes,  It  was.  Otherwise  what's  to 
have  prevented  your  showing  me  the  door?  It 
would  have  been  only  right,  considering  the  opin- 
ion you  held  of  me.  What  prevented  you  at  the 
time,  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt,  was  the  feeling 
that  at  bottom  our  relations  were  still  the  same. 

Eckold.    Ah  I 

27 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Clara.  No  act  of  mine  could  have  wrought  a 
complete  change. 

EcKOLD.     I  don't  quite  grasp  your  — 

Clara.  We  were  too  far  apart,  as  it  was. 
That  was  the  point.  And  what  happened  then 
had  very  little  to  do  with  our  estrangement. 

EcKOLD.  Estrangement  ?  To  what  period  do 
you  allude?     What  do  you  call  estrangement? 

Clara.  Slipped  your  memory,  has  it?  That 
which  made  everything  else  suff erable  ? 

EcKOLD.  Ah,  yes,  I  know  what  you  mean. 
You  refer  to  the  most  dismal  period  of  my  life, 
when  I  was  burdened  down  with  cares  and  strug- 
gles ;  when  I  had  finally  to  relinquish  my  academic 
and  scientific  dreams.  I  was  doomed  then  —  not 
because  I  lacked  the  necessary  qualifications  —  I 
was  doomed  to  remain  a  hack  in  my  calling,  in- 
stead of  achieving  what  came  as  a  windfall  to 
others.  I  grant  you,  I  was  very  ill-tempered. 
But  I  can  picture  the  type  of  woman  who  would, 
at  such  a  pass,  have  stood  stoutly  by  the  side  of 
the  man  and  cheered  him  and  compensated  him 
for  all  the  meannesses  he  had  to  encounter  in  the 
world  of  daily  affairs.  You,  however,  attempted 
to  make  of  my  melancholy  a  kind  of  fault.  And 
this  estrangement  —  convenient  word  —  was  noth- 
ing more  than  a  welcome  refuge  whereby  you  could 
seek  your  happiness  elsewhere. 

Clara.  You're  not  fair  to  me,  Carl.  I  tried 
my  very  best  at  the  time  to  lift  you  above  your 
disillusions  and  trying  experiences.  But  I  wasn't 
strong  enough  for  the  task.  Perhaps  I  tired  too 
quickly.  But  it  never  for  a  moment  occurred  to 
me  to  blame  you  for  your  unfortunate  tempera- 

28 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

ment,  as  you  charge.  That  this  estrangement 
came  about,  was  nobody's  fault,  yours  no  more 
than  mine.  It  may  be  that  human  relations  are 
subject  to  the  same  ailments  as  human  beings. 
Surely  you  feel  the  truth  of  this.  And  so,  all 
alone  you  must  have  known  that  the  obvious  fact 
itself  —  the  betrayal,  as  it  used  to  be  called,  has 
very  little  significance  outside  of  this.  Other- 
wise, you  would  not  have  put  up  with  it  as  you 
did. 

EcKOLD.  You  think  so?  I  see  that  I  owe 
you  an  explanation  as  to  how  I  could  and  did  put 
up  with  it.  To  begin  with,  I  was  forewarned. 
I  had  the  good  sense  to  perceive  destiny  draw  near. 
One  can  always  do  that.  Some  people  shut  their 
eyes  tightly  when  it  approaches.  I  refused  to  do 
so.  And  in  this  way  I  was  clever  enough  to  an- 
ticipate you.  Do  you  follow  me  ?  Fling  my  van- 
ity the  dole.  I  didn't  wait  until  the  minute 
when  your  destiny  and  mine  were  consummated. 
I  beheld  it  approaching.  It  was  inevitable.  And 
thus  I  prepared  for  it.  It's  surprising  that  you  did 
not  once  suspect  me.  How  little  you  must  have 
cared  for  me  I  And  I  made  no  secret  of  it  at  all. 
Why  he,  your  lover,  knew  all  about  it.  Didn't  he 
tell  you  ?  Odd  I  Perhaps  it's  slipped  your  mem- 
ory. Well,  it  makes  no  difference.  Destiny  was 
fairly  merciful,  especially  since  I  had  all  my  plans 
worked  out  for  the  future. 

Clara  [in  a  quiet  voiced .  It  would  have  been 
more  delicate  to  have  shown  me  the  door. 

EcKOLD.  And  more  delicate  of  you  to  have 
gone  away  at  the  right  time.     Such  matters  are 

29 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


never  very  delicate.  It  wouldn't  have  been  prac- 
tical to  have  parted  then. 

Clara.     Surely  you  don't  believe  that? 

EcKOLD.  Why  not?  Would  my  decision  ap- 
pear more  conscionable,  do  you  think,  if  I  rolled 
my  eyes,  lifted  my  hand  to  strike  you  and  stormed 
about  like  a  madman?  I  might  have  done  It  ten 
years  ago,  had  I  been  a  fool.  You  can't  expect  It 
today. 

Clara.  There's  no  one  here  to  witness  the 
scene,  Carl  —  no  one.  You  will  please  consider 
me  as  little  importunate  as  I  consider  you  a  — 

EcKOLD.     A  what  ? 

Clara.  A  comedian  who  simply  won't  have 
his  big  scene  ruined.  Well,  let  this  suffice.  You 
wanted  your  triumph.  You  have  It.  And  let 
it  content  you.  As  you  may  imagine  I  shall  try 
to  be  with  Bettina  as  often  as  possible.  That's 
my  own  wish.  But  of  what  use  is  all  the  rest? 
Why  sever  our  relationship  today?  Why?  Since 
we  know  that  nothing  of  the  sort  Is  apt  to  hap- 
pen again,  there's  nothing  I  can  see  which  would 
justify  such  a  belated  punishment  and  revenge. 
We  can  still  go  on  being  what  we  have  been  to  one 
another  in  these  latter  years.  Throughout  all 
these  years,  thank  heaven,  you  haven't  always 
played  comedy  parts.  It's  beyond  human  endur- 
ance. You  would  have  forgiven  me,  at  heart, 
long  ago,  even  if  you  did  not  forgive  yourself. 
Oh,  before,  a  long  time  before  we  came  to  be  noth- 
ing but  good  friends  — 

EcKOLD.  Good  friends  ?  Mere  words !  Nat- 
urally there's  this  thing  and  that  to  talk  about 
when  one  Is  living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

30 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

especially  because  of  the  many  common  interests. 
Above  all,  when  there  is  a  child.  If  you  care  to 
call  such  a  bond  friendship,  I'm  sure  I  have  no  ob- 
jection. For  my  own  part,  however,  I  always 
held  my  life  to  be  apart  from  yours,  and  I  have 
lived  in  anticipation  of  this  hour. 

Clara.  But  only  since  we  became  nothing 
more  than  house  companions.  Once  it  was  dif- 
ferent. 

EcKOLD.     It  was  never  different. 

Clara.  It  was  different!  Recollect.  After 
the  dark  hour  of  estrangement,  of  lies,  if  you  will, 
there  came  another,  a  better  time  when  we  found 
each  other  again. 

EcKOLD.     We?     Found  one  another — ? 

Clara.  We  both  realized  what  we  had  suf- 
fered without  unlocking  our  lips.  And  many 
wounds  were  healed.  Everything,  in  fact.  Yes. 
Try  to  recall.  We  were  happy  again  as  in  the 
past,  happier  than  we  had  ever  been.  You  could 
never  glean  that  from  your  intercourse  with  the 
world.  Call  to  mind  our  wonderful  trip  —  soon 
after.  And  the  glorious  days  in  Rome,  in  Naples. 
You  threw  off  your  comedy  part.  Let  everything 
else  crumble.  But  when  we  were  again  recon- 
ciled after  our  —  respective  affairs  and  we  had 
learned  anew  what  we  meant  to  each  other  —  that 
was  no  lie,  no  self-deception !  Only  make  an  ef- 
fort to  recall.  It's  a  little  hard  to  speak  of  it  to- 
day. But  you  know  and  I  know  that  at  no  time 
was  I  so  utterly  yours.  Never,  even  in  our  earliest 
years  of  married  life,  was  I  so  completely  your 
ideal  as  then  when  we  found  each  other  again. 

Eckold.     Nonsense! 

31 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Clara.     It  can't  be  — 

EcKOLD.  It  is.  You  were  neither  my  wife, 
nor  my  ideal  —  much  less  than  later,  for  instance, 
you  were  my  friend.  You  couldn't  be  that  to  me 
again. 

Clara.     Carl  I 

EcKOLD.  Yes,  I  recall.  It  possesses  its  own 
peculiar  allurement,  the  time  you  speak  of.  But 
you  were  not  my  ideal.     At  the  very  best  — 

Clara  \^passionately'\.  Don't  say  what's  ut- 
terly beyond  cure  I 

EcKOLD.  Why  should  there  be  a  cure  ?  You 
will  always  be  the  same  to  me. 

Clara.     Carl  1     If  this  be  true  — 

EcKOLD.     It  is  true  1 

Clara.  You  should  have  told  me  this  before 
you  took  me  back.  You  had  the  right,  it  may 
be,  to  drive  me  away,  even  to  kill  me,  if  you 
wished.  But  the  right  to  conceal  the  punishment 
you  had  meted  out  to  me  was  not  yours  —  You 
have  deceived  me  more  nefariously  and  a  thou- 
sandfold more  cowardly  than  I  have  deceived  you. 
You  have  demeaned  me  lower  than  one  human 
being  has  a  right  to  demean  another  human  be- 
ing! 

EcKOLD  [triumphing'].  Do  you  feel  that? 
Does  it  cut  you  to  the  heart?  Ah,  that's  as  it 
should  be.  It  was  worth  waiting  ten  years  for  this 
hour,  this  hour  when  you  feel  your  degradation  as 
trenchantly  as  I  felt  mine  then. 

Clara.     I  never  degraded  you. 

EcKOLD.  Yes,  you  did.  You  degraded  me, 
made  me  look  ridiculous  and  heaped  insult  upon 
insult.     Were  it  not  he,  I  might  perhaps  have  for- 

32 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

gotten  —  forgiven.  My  anger  would  have  dis- 
solved into  thin  air,  my  hate  would  have  vanished. 
But  you  gave  yourself  to  him  of  all  people  —  to 
him  who  has  inherited  all  things  from  childhood 

—  everything  which  was  denied  me.  I  was  filled 
with  doubts  and  qualms.  But  it  was  he  who  al- 
ways gave  himself  airs,  held  himself  a  better  man 
because,  forsooth,  nature  had  endowed  him  with  a 
gayer  temperament.  That  galled  my  heart.  But 
it  also  lent  me  patience  to  allow  my  hate  to  swell. 

Clara.  He?  What  piece  of  good  fortune 
did  he  come  into?  Who  on  earth  is  so  fortunate 
that  you  should  speak  such  words  of  envy? 

EcKOLD.     Do  you  hide  his  precious  name  still 

—  Ormin's  name  ?  The  lordly  Ormin*s,  the  su- 
perior Ormin's,  the  favorite  of  the  gods  — 

Claba  [stupefied].  Ormin?  But  that  —  Or- 
min?     Suppose  it's  all  a  mistake? 

EcKOLD.  Eh?  What  sudden  notion  of  yours 
is  this? 

Clara.  Produce  your  evidence,  if  you  have 
any.     Produce  it. 

EcKOLD.  The  trick  comes  too  late.  Ten 
times  —  a  hundred  times  you  betrayed  yourself. 
But  how  could  you  fancy  that  all  suspicions  were 
disarmed,  and  all  foresight  provided,  simply  be- 
cause he  engaged  lodgings  for  your  dove-cote  un- 
der an  assumed  name?  Naturally,  the  investiga- 
tions were  made  a  trifle  difficult  through  the  genial 
pseudonym  of  Ernst  Mayer,  but  they  led  even- 
tually to  the  goal,  even  though  it  was  just  in  the 
nick  of  time.  Had  you  broken  with  him  on  the 
tenth  of  May  instead  of  on  the  next  day,  then  I 
should  have  had  practically  no  evidence  against 

33 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


you.  For  on  the  next  day,  a  little  nervous  per- 
haps about  your  security,  Mr.  Ernst  Mayer  de- 
cided to  go  away  on  a  journey  —  it  is  not  recorded 
where  —  and  your  love's  young  dream  came  to  an 
end.  I  am  quite  well  posted,  am  I  not?  And 
how  beautifully  everything  adjusted  itself  for  us. 
Had  I  also  seen  you  disappear  on  the  next  day 
from  that  house  — 

Clara.     Well  ? 

EcKOLD.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Maybe  your 
dove-cote  episode  would  have  ended  tragically. 
For  a  trace  of  folly  will  be  found  in  every  one  of 
us  —  in  the  Ormins  as  well  as  the  Eckolds  of  the 
world.  As  it  was,  however,  I  had  time  to  think 
it  over.  I  did  think  it  over  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I  would  keep  silent  until  today. 

Clara.     And  in  his  presence  today  — 

EcKOLD.  Why  should  I  trouble  about  him? 
Sentimental  ninny  I  Who  in  his  old  age,  realiz- 
ing that  his  gifts  are  growing  stale,  crosses  the 
sea,  seeking  in  the  romantic  atmosphere  of  pes- 
tilence and  war,  a  reconciliation  with  his  worthy 
wife  — 

Clara.     Why  do  you  abuse  him? 

EcKOLD.  Why  not?  Wasn't  his  whole  life  a 
public  abuse  of  me? 

Clara.  If  you  felt  that  way  about  it  why 
didn't  you  say  so  to  his  face  today? 

EcKOLD.  Men  need  not  talk  earnestly  and  in 
detail  about  such  things.  What  women  mean  to 
me,  what  women  have  meant  to  me  from  a  cer- 
tain moment  in  my  life,  others  as  well  as  you,  I've 
never  hidden  from  him.  In  the  same  way  he  has 
always  known  that  I  have  penetrated  to  the  inner- 

34 


THE  HOUR  OF  RECOGNITION 

most  recesses  of  his  rather  delicate  and  complacent 
soul. 

Clara.  There  is  nothing  to  see  in  him.  He 
never  played  comedy  parts  as  you  have.  He  was 
always  truthful. 

EcKOLD.  Is  the  old  witchery  still  effective,  do 
you  think?  Positively  you  are  beginning  to  pity 
me. 

Clara.  I  don't  need  to.  I've  been  happy  in 
my  time,  as  happy  as  any  woman  can  hope  to  be. 
I  am  still  happy  today  —  in  the  consciousness  that 
I  once  belonged  to  him.  Nothing  can  rob  me  of 
that  memory.  It  was  he  and  no  one  else.  And 
I  loved  him  beyond  words.  Beyond  words  —  do 
you  follow  me  ?  As  I  have  loved  nobody  else  in 
the  world.  Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  was 
happy  in  this  house  and  that  I  was  intimate  for 
so  many  years  with  no  one  as  with  you.  And  you, 
too,  later,  when  you  are  calmer,  will  call  to  mind 
those  happy  hours.  But  what  were  the  gifts  life 
offered,  what  was  domestic  happiness,  maternal 
bliss,  compared  to  the  lease  of  blessed  ecstasy 
when  I  was  — •  his  —  his  —  when  I  was  his  all-in- 
all— 

EcKOLD.  You  saw  him  today  for  the  last 
time.  Do  you  realize  that?  You  understand 
now  why  I  forewent  the  opportunity  of  explana- 
tion with  him. 

Clara.  I  understand.  Oh,  I  understand 
everything  so  lucidly  that  I  am  going  to  leave  this 
house  —  tonight. 

Eckold.  We  are  of  one  mind.  But  why 
leave  just  today?  I  give  you  leave  to  stay  as  long 
as  you  like. 

35 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Clara.     As  it  is,  it  is  ten  years  too  late. 

EcKOLD  \^shrugging  his  shoulders^.  You  know 
my  view.  Really  I'm  not  unthankful  toward 
those  first  years  of  our  marriage,  but  today  —  but 
today  the  time  had  come  to  speak  about  those 
other  matters.  Cruel  words  in  cases  like  this  are 
unavoidable.  [Glances  out  of  the  wirtdow.}  I 
haven't  given  up  hope  altogether  that  later,  per- 
haps, we  will  talk  quietly.  Have  you  nothing 
else  to  say  to  me  ?  Well,  then,  this  —  this  eve- 
ning let  it  be.  There  are,  of  course,  certain  nec- 
essary formal  matters  to  be  discussed.  I  have  to 
go  now  —  I  must  {^hesitates,  then] — Adieu. 
[Clara  remains  silent.  Eckold  goes  out.  Clara 
stands  alone  for  a  space,  rigid  and  immobile;  then, 
as  if  awaking  from  a  trance,  she  darts  into  the 
room  on  the  left,  and  returns  almost  immediately 
with  her  hat  and  wraps.  She  hesitates.  Then 
seating  herself  at  the  small  secretary,  she  takes  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper  and  starts  to  write.  Almost 
inaudibly.l 

Clara.  What's  the  good?  Words  lie. 
[Rising.]  Bettina?  She  needs  me  no  longer. 
[Rings.] 

Maid  [who  has  entered].  Did  you  ring, 
madam? 

Clara.  I  shall  be  home  rather  late  tonight. 
Don't  wait  with  the  supper.  [Goes  out.  The 
maid  gazes  at  her  somwhat  perplexed.] 


[Curtain.] 

36 


THE  BIG  SCENE 
A  Play  in  One  Act 

PERSONS 

Conrad  Herbot,  an  actor. 

Sophie,  his  wife. 

Edgar  Gley. 

Doctor  Falk,  director  of  a  theatre. 

Vilma  Flamm. 

A  Bell-hop. 

A  Theatre  Employee. 

[Scene.  An  apartment  in  a  fashionable  ho- 
tel. There  is  a  door  framed  in  the  back  wall 
giving  onto  the  corridor;  another^  hung  with 
portieres,  on  the  left,  conducting  to  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  Down  left,  a  fireplace  with  brightly 
burning  logs.  Directly  in  front  of  the  fireplace, 
a  small  table  with  a  settee.  In  the  centre,  a 
thought  to  the  right,  an  ordinary  escritoire  with 
telephone  apparatus. 

Alongside  the  escritoire,  as  if  tentatively 
pushed  up,  is  a  divan.  In  the  back,  left,  al- 
coves skillfully  concealed  by  curtains.  There 
is  a  rather  large  window  on  the  right  affording 
a  glimpse  of  the  theatre  vis-a-vis.  Two  ward- 
robes flank  either  side  of  the  door  in  the  back. 

Late  afternoon  on  a  day  toward  the  end  of 

37 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


fall.  For  several  minutes  the  room  remains 
vacant.  Then,  a  knock.  Pause.  The  knock- 
ing  is  resumed. 

A  Bell-hop  glides  in  by  way  of  the  door  in 
the  hack.  He  is  carrying  several  letters.  Al- 
most simultaneously  Sophie  enters  from  the 
other  door.'\ 

Sophie.  Letters?  \^The  Bell-hop  intent  on 
putting  the  letters  on  the  escritoire  approaches 
her.]  Any  for  me ?  [She  relieves  him  of  the  let- 
ters and  glances  hastily  through  the  pile.  She 
puts  three  on  the  escritoire  and  keeps  one  in  her 
hand."\  Ah  I  From  him.  [The  Bell-hop  goes. 
Sophie  moves  to  the  window  with  the  letter,  which 
she  proceeds  feverishly  to  open.  She  reads  it, 
smiles  as  if  pleased,  shakes  her  head  and  then  re- 
sumes reading.  In  the  midst  of  this,  she  is  inter- 
rupted by  another  knock."]     Come  In. 

[The  Bell-hop  re-enters,  this  time  with  a  card 
which  he  hands  to  Sophie.] 

Sophie.  Vilma  Flamm?  I  don't  recollect 
ever  meeting  her. 

Bell-hop.  The  lady  says  she  comes  by  pre- 
vious appointment. 

Sophie.  By  previous  appointment?  Ah,  quite 
so.  You  will  please  inform  the  lady  that  my  hus- 
band—  that  Mr.  Herbot,  actor  by  appointment 
to  the  Burgtheatre,  is  not  at  home.  [The  Bell- 
hop goes.] 

Sophie  [continues  reading  her  letter.  Her 
face  shows  that  she  is  profoundly  touched].  No. 
What  an  idea  1  Surely  he  doesn't  believe  — [a 
knock].     I  wonder  what  that  is  now?     Come  in. 

38 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


[Filma  Flamm   enters.     She  is   a  girl  some- 
where in   the  vicinity   of   twenty-two,   fash- 
ionably hut  not,  one  would  say,  expensively 
gowned.     Nor,  taken  all  in  all,  is  she  particu- 
larly attractive,  due  perhaps  to  the  fact  that 
her  hat  is  so  immense  and  her  coif  so  dis- 
tinctly and  unmistakably   of  Pre-Raphaelite 
origin.     Her   eyes    are   lustrous    and   dark. 
She  is  slightly  ill  at  ease  under  Sophie's  ap- 
praising look.'} 
ViLMA.     I  beg  your  pardon  — 
Sophie.     Miss  Flamm,  I  believe  — ? 
ViLMA.     Yes.     I  come  at  the  request  of  — 
Sophie.     Didn't  the  boy  tell  you?     Mr.  Her- 
bot  is  not  at  home  just  now. 

ViLMA.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  but  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take since  Mr.  Herbot  asked  me  here  at  five  to- 
day. I'm  afraid  I  am  a  trifle  late.  Do  you  ex- 
pect Mr.  Herbot  back  shortly? 

Sophie  [extremely  cool}.  I  can't  say  for  cer- 
tain. Don't  you  think  you  had  better  call  again 
some  other  time?  Or  —  would  you  prefer  wait- 
ing in  the  lobby  ? 

ViLMA.     I  —  wait?     I'm  not  strong  on  the  art 
of  waiting.     And  besides  —  I  presume  you  are 
Mr.  Herbot's  secretary? 
Sophie.     No,  I  am  his  wife. 
ViLMA  [involuntarily}.     Ah! 
Sophie.     The  announcement  seems  to  occasion 
you  a  good  deal  of  amazement,  Miss  Flamm. 

ViLMA.  Oh  no.  Only  I  was  under  the  im- 
pression —  to  be  sure,  it's  common  gossip  by  now, 
that  Mr.  Herbot  is  divorced  from  his  wife. 

39 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Sophie  [with  admirable  self-possession],  A 
mistake,  I  assure  you. 

ViLMA.     Thank  Heaven  for  that. 

Sophie  [wheeling  half-way  round].  Very 
good  of  you  to  say  so,  I'm  sure.  [With  greater 
affableness.]  If  you'd  care  to  leave  a  message  for 
my  husband — ? 

ViLMA.  I  do  hope  you  won't  mind  I  But, 
you  see,  it's  rather  or  a  personal  nature.  I  came 
expecting  to  get  a  try-out  from  Mr.  Herbot,  who 
has  made  a  great  name  for  himself  at  the  Burg- 
theatre. 

Sophie.     A  try-out? 

ViLMA.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
preparing  myself  for  a  career  on  the  stage.  For 
six  months,  or  thereabouts,  I've  been  a  pupil  of 
Madame  Fuchs.  But  lately  I  have  gotten  into 
the  habit  of  questioning  very  seriously  whether 
her  method  is  quite  the  correct  one.  It  goes  with- 
out saying,  that  the  members  of  my  family  are  ut- 
terly opposed  to  the  idea.  My  father's  a  mer- 
chant in  the  city  —  Flamm  and  Sons,  Haberdash- 
ers. The  sons  are  my  brothers.  I  gave  Mr. 
Herbot  full  particulars  about  myself  in  a  letter 
which  I  sent  him  a  little  over  a  week  ago.  And 
in  reply  Mr.  Herbot  was  generous  enough  to  call 
this  appointment  for  five  o'clock  today.  I  sup- 
pose he's  forgotten  all  about  it. 

Sophie.  Quite  possible,  since,  as  you  say,  he 
made  it  eight  days  ago  —     [A  knock.] 

ViLMA  [eagerly].  Come  in.  Oh  —  I  beg  — 
your  pardon. 

[Sophie  smiles  involuntarily.     The  Bell-hop  ap- 
pears with  a  card.] 

40 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Sophie.     Oh,  certainly.     Show  him  in. 
l^Falk   enters.     He   is   a   small  slender   man, 
clean-shaven,  with  a  pair  of  keen  penetrating 
eyes.     He   wears   a   tortoise-shell  pince-nez 
which  he  removes  instinctively  from  time  to 
time  from  the  bridge  of  his  nose.     He  is 
wearing    an    overcoat.     In    one    hand    he 
clutches  a  stick  and  in  the  other  a  manuscript 
case."] 
Falk.     Well,  here  I  am.     I  didn't  wait  to  be 
shown  in. 

Sophie  [quite  beside  herself  with  joy.  Ofer- 
ing  him  her  hand"].  Good  evening,  dear  friend. 
[jo  Filma,  who  remains  standing  gazing  wide- 
eyed  at  the  director.^  You  will  pardon  me.  Miss 
Flamm,  but,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  write  again. 

ViLMA.  Would  it  be  too  presumptuous  to  beg 
you  to  present  me  to  the  director  — 

[^Falk  turns  away  after  shooting  a  withering 

glance  at  Filma.'] 
Sophie  [slightly  confused"].     For  the  moment 

—  I  —  have  forgotten  your  name  — 

ViLMA.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  introduce 
myself:  I  am  Vilma  Flamm,  actress  by  profession 

—  an  actress,  that  is,  about  to  be.  Herr  Director 
you  see  before  you  one  of  your  most  ardent  ad- 
mirers. I  rarely  visit  any  other  theatre  but  yours. 
So  I  would  take  this  opportunity  — 

Falk.     But  I  would  not.     [Turns  away.] 
Vilma.     It  was  wholly  unintentional,  I  assure 
you.     It  must  have  been  the  hand  of  destiny  — 

Falk.  Perhaps.  If  so,  then  you  have  en- 
tirely misread  the  drift  of  this  hand.  I  do  not  dis- 
cuss theatrical  business  outside  of  my  office,  and 

41 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


there  only  between  two  and  three,  afternoons,  by 
previous  arrangement. 

ViLMA.  Then  may  I  call  on  you  tomorrow  at 
two  — ? 

Falk.  Please  don't  put  yourself  out,  my  dear 
young  lady.  We  have  no  vacancy  at  the  present 
moment.  But  you  are  young  yet;  my  advice  to 
you  is  to  try  the  provinces.  Germany,  believe  me, 
is  rich  in  excellent  — 

ViLMA  [as  if  suddenly  struck  with  the  idea'\. 
Theatres. 

Falk.     Railways.     Good  evening,  Miss  — 

ViLMA.  At  all  events,  I  shall  never  forget  this 
hour. 

Falk.  I  can't  put  a  stop  to  your  memory,  I'm 
sure. 

ViLMA.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Herbot.  Good 
evening,  Herr  Director. 

\_She  goes  out.'\ 

Falk  [still  flourishing  his  stick"].  Why  do  you 
let  people  of  that  description  cross  your  threshold, 
Mrs.  Herbot.     May  I — ? 

[He  places  his  stick  and  overcoat  on  the  divan, 
but  retains  the  case  in  his  hand.] 

Sophie.  I  couldn't  help  it.  She  came  in  un- 
awares. Herbot,  it  seems,  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  her  in  order,  as  she  says,  to  give  her  a 
try-out. 

Falk.  One  shouldn't  object  to  that.  Occa- 
sionally he  is  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  instruct- 
ing the  young. 

Sophie.  There  are  times  when  —  I  —  I  feel 
as  if  I  must  pack  my  things  and  leave  him. 

Falk.     It  wouldn't  pay,  that.     As  regards  this 

42 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


would-be  actress,  she  needn't  trouble  you  nor  me 
nor  even  him  very  much.  Proof  is,  he  wasn't  even 
at  home  when  she  called. 

Sophie.  He  wrote  her  eight  days  ago  when, 
supposedly,  he  was  divorced. 

Falk.     Oh  no. 

Sophie.     And  if  I  hadn't  come  yesterday  — 

Falk  [seizing  the  occasion].  But  you  are 
here,  my  dear  Sophie.  Let's  keep  to  that  just 
now.  And  that's  why  I've  come :  to  offer  you  my 
welcome  and  congratulations  on  your  return. 

Sophie.  Thanks.  I  gladly  accept  your  wel- 
come. But  as  to  the  congratulations  —  do  you 
think  they  are  a  propos  ? 

Falk.  Indeed  they  are.  A  thousand  con- 
gratulations. I've  already  congratulated  your 
husband  at  rehearsal  today,  and  I  daresay  I  have 
every  reason  in  the  world  to  congratulate  myself, 
besides,  on  winning  back  my  star  actor. 

Sophie.     But  you  never  lost  him,  to  begin  with. 

Falk.     Still  — 

Sophie.  Oh,  I  followed  his  repertory  day  by 
day.  He  played,  in  all,  from  September  ist  un- 
til today,  October  30th.  Six  times  a  week,  and 
in  the  course  of  this  period  he  created  two  brand- 
new  parts,  one  classic  and  the  other  modern.  And 
both,  I  understand,  were  successes. 

Falk.  Successes  ?  H'm.  That's  as  you  look 
at  it.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  he  made  a  fizzle 
of  these  parts.  Why,  I  couldn't  help  hissing  him 
myself  —  under  my  breath,  of  course,  because 
noisy  manifestations  of  disapproval  are  prohibited 
in  my  theatre.  Oh  yes;  he  made  a  hit  with  the 
gallery.     What    else    do    you    expect?    Good 

43 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Heavens,  a  dozen  geniuses  can  be  ruined  and  laid 
away  before  the  great  general  public  or,  for  that 
matter,  the  critics  get  even  an  inkling  that  one  of 
the  most  cherished  idols  of  the  day  is  threatening 
to  topple.  Only  the  other  day, —  it  was  in  Tasso 
—  he  tripped  up  disgracefully  on  lines  no  fewer 
than  seven  times.  The  gullible,  easily  credulous 
public,  I  daresay,  thought  each  slip-up  a  fresh 
nuance.  In  addition  he's  fallen  into  a  habit  of 
mouthing  —  the  same  mannerism,  in  fact,  which 
he  used  to  pull  off  before  I  came  along  and  literally 
rescued  him  from  the  Burgtheatre. 

Sophie.  Don't  try  to  cry  down  the  Burgthe- 
atre.    It's  superior  to  —  most  others. 

Falk.  Oh,  of  course.  That's  a  regular  little 
pet  view  which  you  Viennese  hold.  Let  me  tell 
you,  dear  Sophie,  it  would  have  spelled  the  end  of 
Herbot  as  an  actor  if  he  — 

Sophie.  If  he  had  stayed  on  at  the  Burg- 
theatre? 

Falk.  Ah  —  no.  I  mean,  if  you  two  had  not 
been  brought  together  again.  As  a  patron  of 
German  art  in  general  and  as  a  director  of  a  the- 
atre in  particular,  I  was  bound  to  bring  you  both 
to  your  senses. 

Sophie.     Oh  I 

Falk.     And  to  thrust  you  into  his  arms. 

Sophie.  Indeed?  Then  it  was  the  theatre  di- 
rector, not  my  husband,  who  sent  me  those  appeal- 
ing letters. 

Falk.  Appealing  or  not,  at  all  events,  I  am 
gratified  that  they  were  not  sent  unavailingly. 
And  I  can't  help  coddling  myself  into  thinking  mat 


44 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


not  only  my  theatre,  but  Herbot  himself  and  you, 
above  all,  are  going  to  gain  by  it. 

Sophie.  Will  you  not  admit  —  be  truthful 
now  1  —  that  I  acted  a  little  precipitately  in  com- 
ing so  soon. 

Falk.  I  don't  think  so.  But,  touching  those 
other  things,  I  don't  care  to  be  pretentious.  It  is 
for  the  best;  it  is  good  for  you  too,  that  Herbot 
and  you  have  made  it  up.  You  belong  to  one  an- 
other. Yes,  apart  from  whatever  indiscretions 
you  may  have  committed  or  may,  in  future,  com- 
mit I 

Sophie.     You  I 

Falk.  I  mean,  either  of  you.  And  as  for 
him  —  well,  this  is  by  no  means  the  first  time  that 
I've  called  your  attention  to  it  —  you  must  really 
take  him  as  he  is.  Wherever  geniuses  are  to  be 
considered,  you  can  always  count  on  a  certain 
amount  of  poignant  grief  to  directors  as  well  as  to 
women. 

Sophie.  Except  that,  in  the  case  of  the  direc- 
tor, the  grief  has  its  recompense. 

Falk.  Don't  say  that,  Sophie.  Ultimately, 
it  has  its  recompense  for  you  women,  too.  You 
must  exult  exquisitely,  you  women,  when  you  real- 
ize that  a  jack-a-napes  fashioned  along  Herbot's 
lines,  is  directly  dependent  on  you,  and  that  this 
dependency  increases  from  year  to  year.  In 
short,  if  you  will  have  the  truth,  he  can  neither 
live  nor  act  without  you.  Don't  you  perceive, 
Sophie,  if  ever  there  existed  an  indisputable  mark 
of  love,  then  here  it  is.  And  since  you  cannot 
live  without  him  — 

Sophie.     I'm  not  so  sure  of  that. 

45 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Falk.  Well,  at  all  events,  you  are  here. 
The  rest  will  follow,  if  it  hasn't  already.  But 
let  me  have  a  good  look  at  you,  Sophie.  Se- 
clusion, it  seems,  has  worked  wonders  with  you 

—  if  seclusion  it  was. 

Sophie.  Doctor!  Whatever  can  you  be 
thinking  of? 

Falk.  Well,  assuming  for  an  Instant  it  were 
true,  nobody  would  count  it  against  you.  Least 
of  all,  he.  And  revenge,  if  you'll  forgive  the 
bromide,  is  said  to  be  sweet. 

Sophie.  Revenge  is  a  thing  I  do  not  under- 
stand. 

Falk.  Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter  much  be- 
cause revenge  —  at  least  in  cases  like  this  — 
rarely  comes^  unalloyed.  For  the  doer  of  ven- 
geance, so  called,  a  good  deal  of  the  sweetness 
is  thinned  in  the  process,  a  fact  which  has  some- 
how got  itself  overlooked  in  the  proverb.  Why 
are  you  laughing,  Sophie  ? 

Sophie.  What  you  just  said,  is  very  clever. 
But  how  ruthlessly  you'd  cut  it  out,  if  by  chance 
you  came  across  it  in  the  dialogue  of  one  of  your 
playwrights ! 

Falk.  Well,  what  do  you  expect?  Wisdom 
on  the  stage  is  like  sowing  the  sands.  It's  alto- 
gether out  of  place.  But  to  take  up  again  our 
uncut  dialogue:  Ah,  but  you  have  grown  slen- 
derer and  a  shade  paler  in  complexion. 

Sophie.  You  only  fancy  so,  doctor.  I'm 
looking  fine.  And,  all  in  all,  I  had  a  splendid 
time.     Seclusion  isn't  such  a  bad  thing  after  all 

—  and  bracing,  quite  bracing,  believe  me.     Just 
think:  to  stroll  for  hours  along  the  stretch  of 

46 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


beach  or  to  lose  oneself  in  some  beautiful  book  or 
to  lie,  perfectly  relaxed,  in  a  boat  and  gaze  up, 
drinking  in  the  blue  immensity  of  the  heavens; 
but,  above  and  beyond  all  this,  not  to  have  to  lis- 
ten to  lies,  lies  —  the  whole  livelong  day. 

Falk.  You  exaggerate,  Sophie.  Lies  —  I 
There  are  no  such  things  as  lies  in  the  world. 
There  are  only  people. who  permit  themselves  to 
be  fooled.  And  you  were  never  one  of  them, 
Sophie.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  certain 
human  relations  that  are  founded  on  lies.  Only 
this  fact  must  be  ignored,  never  traded  on.  In 
spite  of  everything,  Herbot  loves  you  and  has  al- 
ways loved  you.  This  is  the  undeniable  truth,  no 
matter  what  has  happened. 

Sophie.  And  will  happen  in  the  future,  you 
must  add. 

Falk.  It  will  never  happen  again.  This 
would-be  tragedy  queen  in  her  rather  piteous  di- 
lemma is  negligible,  any  way  you  take  her. 
Surely  Herbot  couldn't  foresee  eight  days  ago 
that  you'd  give  in.  He  probably  wanted  to  lay 
in  fuel  for  the  winter. 

Sophie.  Do  you  condone  this  sort  of  thing 
too?  Do  you  realize  that  he  wrote  me  daily, 
though  I  haven't  replied  with  so  much  as  a  couple 
of  cool  lines.     And  what  letters  I 

Falk.     More  beautiful  than  mine? 

Sophie.  It  seemed  that  he  had  no  other 
thought,  no  other  longing  but  for  me. 

Falk.  Which  is  quite  true.  Shall  I  tell  you, 
Sophie,  how  this  spoiled  child  wept  like  a  babe 
because  of  you.  You  won't  take  unfair  advan- 
tage of  the  confidence,  I  hope.     And  not  only  did 

47 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


he  come  up  and  weep  in  my  quiet  chambers,  but 
recently,  the  other  day,  in  fact,  we  were  sitting 
in  the  restaurant  and  he  was  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  gay;  and  then  suddenly  he  dropped  his 
head  on  the  table  and  commenced  whimpering  like 
a  dog. 

Sophie.  And  in  your  apartment,  you  say,  he 
wept  like  a  babe.  Doubtless  this  is  a  fine  distinc- 
tion. 

Falk.  Well  then,  if  you'll  have  it  so,  like  a 
dog  — 

Sophie.  But  in  the  restaurant,  I  suppose,  you 
first  opened  a  "  pottle  Sec,"  as  he  calls  it. 

Falk.     No  use  denying  it. 

Sophie.     He  did  drink  with  you  — 

Falk.  Only  when  despair  got  the  better  of 
him. 

Sophie.  But  you'll  admit  that  he  got  pleasure 
out  of  it. 

Falk.  Yes.  Life  runs  its  course.  That's 
from  one  of  my  playwrights.  Not  very  pro- 
found, I  daresay,  but  it  hits  the  bull's-eye.  And 
so  what  can  we  do  but  resign  ourselves  to  our 
destinies?  Tonight,  after  the  final  curtain  of 
Hamlet  —  1 1  -45  —  in  honor  of  the  reunion  of 
husband  and  wife,  and  of  the  cause  of  German  art, 
we'll  blow  ourselves  to  a  "  pottle  "  of  wine.  And 
I  promise  you,  he  won't  start  whimpering  to- 
night —  But  what  the  deuce  can  be  keeping  him 
so  long? 

Sophie.  His  usual  afternoon  stroll  —  or, 
who  knows,  he  may  be  betraying  me  with  some 
tragedienne  or  banker's  wife  —  or  simply  a  shop- 
girl. 

48 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Falk.  Oh  please  I  Betraying  you — I  Be- 
fore Hamlet  ?     Incredible  I 

Sophie  [^laughing  involuntarily'\.  What's  that 
you're  promenading  back  and  forth? 

Falk.  Oh  this?  This  is  a  new  play.  A 
very  interesting  part  for  him?  I  want  him  to 
look  at  it.  Now  that  the  affair  [_with  a  hovil 
has  been  successfully  concluded,  I  know  I  can  trust 
in  his  judgment. 

Sophie.    You  flatter  me. 

Falk.  But,  tell  me,  when  did  you  arrive, 
Frau  Sophie,  which  being  rendered  into  our  be- 
loved German  tongue,  means,  not  without  good 
reason,  Frau  Wisdom. 

Sophie.  Last  night.  Oh,  you  needn't  pull  a 
wry  face.  The  hotel  was  overcrowded.  We  got 
this  room  this  morning. 

Falk.  Seriously  now,  doesn't  it  speak  well 
for  him  that  he  has  kept  your  charmmg  apart- 
ment locked  up  and  sworn  an  oath  that  he  won't 
cross  the  threshold  except  arm  in  arm  with  you  ? 

Sophie.  Oh  yes,  there  are  some  oaths  which 
he  keeps.  You  see,  the  hotel,  being  directly  op- 
posite the  theatre,  is  altogether  more  convenient 
for  —  try-outs  and  coaching  — 

Falk.  Enough.  Either  you're  reconciled  or 
you're  not  reconciled.  Why  are  you  suspicious? 
Have  you  any  grounds?  Quite  frankly,  I  didn't 
come  here  with  the  single  purpose  of  congratulat- 
ing you.  There  is  a  promise  I  want  to  obtain 
from  you,  if  I  can. 

Sophie.     A  promise? 

Falk.  That  you  won't  go  through  the  same 
rigmarole  again. 

49 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Sophie.     Rigmarole  ?    I  ? 

Falk.  I  mean,  that  you  won*t  leave  him 
again.  I  can't  afford  accidents  in  the  middle  of 
the  season.  This  time  you  fled  on  August  14th, 
and  it  wasn't  until  September  ist  that  he  recovered 
sufficiently  to  act.  Now  wouldn't  I  be  in  a  fine 
fix,  if  you  were  to  do  it  again  when  the  play  we're 
producing  happens  to  be  a  hit?  I  simply  can't 
let  matters  reach  that  pass.  And  so  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  — 

Sophie.     Hadn't  we  better  sign  a  contract? 

Falk.  Contract — ?  Oh  please!  I  wish 
you  to  give  your  promise  gratuitously,  out  of  a 
sense  of  conviction,  insight  and  understanding  of 
my  position.  He,  I  know,  won't  trespass  again. 
As  a  conductor  of  a  place  of  amusement,  you  real- 
ize that  I  am  committed,  like  the  prohibition  of 
smoking  in  the  theatre,  to  anticipate  every  eventu- 
ality. And  so  if  this  little  thing  should  happen 
again  — 

Sophie.  Doctor!  You  amaze  me.  Little 
thing !  Have  I  been  speaking  to  the  four  winds  ? 
Or  must  I  assume  that  in  this  lying  world,  even 
such  a  respectable  member  of  society  —  such  a 
gentleman  as  yourself,  has  lost,  along  with  the 
rest,  the  power  to  differentiate  between  levity  and 
—  baseness  ? 

Falk.     But  —  but  — 

Sophie.  Under  such  circumstances,  how  can  I 
come  back  to  him? 

Falk.  You  needn't  come  back  to  him.  To 
begin  with,  you  should  not  go  away  at  all.  Why 
don't  you  take  things  less  tragically?  You  can 
do  it.     You  have  proved  It  over  and  over  again. 

50 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


To  be  truthful  with  you,  I  can't  understand  why 
you  left  this  time — r 

Sophie.  You  can't  understand?  You,  who 
have  been  a  bystander  through  it  all,  from  begin- 
ning to  end? 

Falk.  You  remember  three  years  ago?  I 
was  a  bystander  to  that  too.  As  far  as  I  can 
tell,  the  cases  are  alike.  Faithless  once,  faith- 
less always.     Why  did  you  leave  this  time — ? 

Sophie.  They  are  different,  dear  friend.  At 
that  time  we  two  alone,  Herbot  and  I,  had  to 
make  it  up  with  one  another.  The  happiness  of 
other  people  was  not  at  stake. 

Falk.  Of  course  a  third  person  was  involved. 
That's  in  the  very  nature  of  these  affairs. 

Sophie.  Philinchen?  A  frivolous  woman 
who'd  gone  through  almost  everything,  and  who 
had  no  responsibility  whatever  to  herself  or  to 
anybody  else.  And  then,  when  a  man  plays  the 
same  dangerous  role  night  after  night  for  a  hun- 
dred nights,  and  you  are  playing  opposite  him  — 
it's  like  tempting  fate.  I  saw  it  coming  on  the 
first  night,  huge,  irresistible.  After  that  the  only 
question  was  at  which  performance  the  affair 
would  come  to  full  fruition. 

Falk.  It  was  on  the  ninth.  By  the  twenty 
fifth  it  was  closed. 

Sophie.  You  keep  your  books  accurately, 
doctor. 

Falk.  I  am  half  a  parent  to  Herbot.  And 
I  assure  you,  had  it  lasted  longer,  I  should  have 
substituted  another  Rautendelein.  Entirely  on 
your  account,  dear  Sophie.  Because  I  knew  you 
did  mind,  in  spite  of  what  you  say. 

51 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Sophie.  Mind?  Ah  no.  I  understood  it. 
I  said  to  myself:  What  would  happen  to  you 
if  you  played  opposite  a  man  like  Herbot,  night 
after  night?  Unfortunately,  there  is  no  other 
like  him.  I  can  quite  grasp  how  like  incense,  like 
a  wild  abandon,  a  nightmare,  the  feeling  would 
come  over  one  —  and  then  at  last  one  awakes. 
This  forbearance  did  not  come  at  once.  In  the 
throes  of  my  first  anguish,  I  wanted  to  kill  them. 

Falk.     Both  ? 

Sophie  [eamestlyl.     Him  —  at  least,  him. 

Falk.  And  what  about  me  ?  Eh  ?  I  should 
have  had  to  put  off  my  play.  And  a  fine  chance 
rd  have,  getting  on  my  feet  again  I 

Sophie  [^laughing  involuntarily'\.  But  how  do 
you  explain  the  fact  that,  after  Herbot,  others 
played  the  part? 

Falk.  Later  —  much  later.  Before  a  per- 
formance, I  warn  you,  no  star  is  allowed  to  be 
murdered.  Now  you  have  an  inkling  of  what 
drawbacks  there  are  in  this  repertory  business. 
But  many  thanks  for  not  carrying  out  your  intenr 
tion.  You  were  wise  in  thinking  better  of  it,  just 
as  now  — 

Sophie.  I'm  not  sure  yet  whether  it's  the  best 
thing  in  this  case,  though. 

Falk.  Right  after  the  affair  —  after  that  first 
crisis,  I  remember  quite  well  that  you  really  be- 
came mated  for  the  first  time.  And  you  were 
wonderfully  happy.  At  least  until  August  of  this 
year.  And,  trust  me,  you  will  be  happy  together 
again. 

Sophie.     Wonderfully  happy? 

Falk.     Certainly. 

52 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Sophie.  I  don't  think  so.  Even  though  IVe 
come  back,  be  assured  it  can  never  mean  happiness 
again. 

Falk.     But  — 

Sophie.  Only  think,  doctor,  who  the  favorite 
is  now.  A  young  girl,  an  innocent  young  girl 
about  to  be  married.  And  her  fiance  is  a  splendid 
young  man  who  is  quite  daft  about  the  girl.  Be- 
sides, he  and  Herbot  are  quite  friendly.  Has 
anyone  the  right  to  jeopardize  a  third  person  in 
an  affair  of  this  kind? 

Falk.  In  a  higher  sense,  certainly  not.  But 
in  the  present  instance  the  happiness  of  a  third 
person  is  not  in  peril.  The  fellow  knows  abso- 
lutely nothing,  and  the  wedding  will  take  place 
in  eight  days. 

Sophie.     Oh,  that  is  the  least  consideration. 

Falk.  I'm  afraid,  Sophie,  you've  been  to  too 
many  performances  of  Ibsen  at  my  threatre. 
Luckily,  Herbot  has  no  use  for  Ibsen  and  regards 
the  affair  as  comparatively  harmless  —  not  very 
different  from  that  other  one.  At  that  time,  it 
was  the  case  of  a  young  girl  of  good  family  too ; 
yes,  and  she  was  about  to  be  married.  But  an  af- 
fair of  this  sort  doesn't  always  imply  a  climax,  as 
you  think.  With  the  perplexities  of  conscience 
Herbot  has  no  patience.  His  is  much  too  primi- 
tive—  let  us  be  frank  —  his  is  too  wholesome  a 
nature. 

Sophie.  Wholesome?  Is  that  the  correct 
word? 

Falk.  Really,  I  never  dreamed  you'd  take  the 
thing  so  painfully.  At  first  I  had  no  idea  when 
the  affair  would  peter  out.    They  were  wrapped 

53 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


up  in  one  another  and  noticed  nothing  or  seemed 
to  notice  nothing.  Naturally  I  wondered  a  bit, 
and  I  dare  say  I  had  cause  to  wonder  too. 

Sophie.     That's  a  bit  dark,  doctor. 

Falk.  Well,  what  I  mean  is  that  I  should 
certainly  have  wondered  if  they  had  let  the  thing 
go  on  that  way,  if  at  the  critical  moment  I  had  not 
found  them  with  entanglements  elsewhere. 

Sophie  [smiling'].  Indeed.  How  you  notice 
everything,  dear  doctor. 

Falk.  You  don't  have  to  be  particularly 
sharp  for  that.  And  I,  as  an  old  skillful  drama- 
tist, cannot  lay  the  tragic  blame  at  your  door. 

Sophie  [very  earnestlyl.  Perhaps  you  are 
right.  But  I  am  not  altogether  without  blame. 
Otherwise  I  should  not  have  come  back. 

Falk.  And  wouldn't  it  be  much  nicer  —  and 
here  the  unmoral  casuist  puts  the  question  — 
wouldn't  it  somewhat  relieve  the  situation  if  you 
were  likewise  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  caught  in 
a  fault? 

Sophie.  Perhaps.  Similar  thoughts  have 
come  to  me  unaided  in  my  seclusion. 

Falk.  Similar  thoughts  occurred  to  you,  and 
yet  you  remained  alone  ? 

Sophie.     Do  you  still  doubt  that? 

Falk.     Oh  no  I 

Sophie.  I  don't  think  you  have  a  true  account 
of  the  affair  to  which  you  allude.  And  since  I  feel 
that  you  are  a  friend  — 

Falk.     You  have  none  better  — 

Sophie.  Then  you  ought  to  know  the  truth. 
My  truth.  Here  is  a  letter  which  I  received  from 
him  one  hour  ago.     From  him. 

54 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Falk.  From  him?  From  the  young  chap 
sporting  the  hunting  cap  ?     My  chess  opponent  ? 

Sophie.  You  referred  to  him,  didn't  you? 
Or  did  you  suspect  an  escapade  with  some  one 
else?  It's  a  letter  from  the  young  man  with 
whom  I  seemed  to  you  to  be  so  taken  up,  emo- 
tionally and  otherwise,  that  I  allowed  the  affair 
between  my  husband  and  Daisy  to  take  its  natural 
course.     Would  you  care  to  read  it? 

Falk.  Typed,  is  it?  No?  Oh,  you  will 
have  to  excuse  me,  Sophie.  Read  it  to  me  your- 
self with  your  dark  resonant  voice. 

Sophie.  I'll  read  only  a  few  lines  which,  I 
think,  will  clear  up  everything  for  you.  Just  a 
minute.  ITurns  pages  and  reads.]  "I  have 
just  learnt,  dear  madam,  that  you  are  still  in 
Brioni  and  as  ever,  alone.  Since  you  left  the  At- 
tersee  lakeside  before  me  and  have  not,  to  my 
knowledge,  arrived  at  Vienna,  it  follows  that  you 
have  not  seen  your  husband  for  two  months." 
[Interrupts  herself.']     The  letter  was  forwarded 


to  me  here.  [Reads  further.]  "It  is  not  my 
intention  to  force  myself  into  your  private  af- 
fairs, nor  to  attempt  to  penetrate  what  appears 
a  self-chosen  reticence.  Whatever  has  happened, 
whatever  your  plans  are,  I  must  not  presume  to 
be  concerned  any  further  than  you  will  allow. 
But,  if  I  may,  I  should  like  to  remind  you  of  one 
hour  —  a  wonderful  hour  on  the  shore  of  the  lake 
just  before  sunset  — "  A  wonderful  sunset,  while 
my  husband  and  Daisy  and  her  fiance  were  out 
sailing  in  the  distance. 

Falk.     Is  that  what  our   friend  means  by 
"  wonderful "  ?    He  is  undoubtedly  referring  to 

55 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


something  that  happened  between  you  and  him  — 

Sophie.  It  was  the  hour  when  he  dared  utter 
his  feelings,  for  the  first  and  only  time.  No,  he 
didn't  utter  them.  He  betrayed  them  in  a  quiet 
but  moving  way.  By  kissing  my  handl  That 
was  all. 

Falk.     That  may  be  much. 

Sophie.  At  all  events,  you  must  admit,  that 
my  transgression  was  very  slight. 

Falk.  All  the  more  praiseworthy,  because 
he's  such  a  handsome,  clean-cut  fellow.  I've 
rarely  gotten  along  with  anybody  so  well.  His 
personality  gives  out  a  kind  of  wood  smell.  I 
welcome  an  unliterary  chap  like  that  as  a  god- 
send.    I'll  bet  he  never  wrote  a  play  in  his  life. 

Sophie.  Ah,  yes.  They've  something  orig- 
inal to  offer,  these  simple  good  people  who  are  no 
geniuses. 

Falk.  Good.  What  a  word !  That  won- 
derful hour  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  —  I'm  in- 
clined to  think  it  depended  entirely  on  you  and  the 
good  — 

Sophie.  You  don't  know  him,  if  you  say  that. 
Even  at  that  moment  his  intentions  were  —  well, 
honorable.  Just  as  they  are  now.  And  he  clears 
himself,  as  you  will  see,  in  the  letter.  Let  me 
read  the  ending.      [She  turns  the  pages. "i 

Falk.     You're  skipping  a  good  deal. 

Sophie  [^reading'].  "Just  the  same  —  I  am 
just  as  I  was  in  the  summer.  When  you  need  a 
friend,  call  on  me  or,  better  still,  come  your- 
self—" 

Falk.     Come  yourself? 

Sophie.     Listen  to  the  rest.     [Reads.']     "  My 

S6 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


life  belongs  to  you.  I  am  all  alone  and  abso- 
lutely free.  If  you  are  free  too,  Frau  Sophie,  as 
free  as  I  suppose  you  to  be  — " 

Falk  [brusquely']'  His  conjecture  is  wrong, 
quite  wrong.     Have  you  written  him  so? 

Sophie.     The  letter  came  only  an  hour  ago. 

Falk.  *'  Come  yourself."  Not  bad,  that. 
The  fellow  seems  daft  about  inviting  everybody  to 
his  hunting-lodge  at  Klein-Reifling. 

Sophie.     Everybody? 

Falk.  Yes.  He's  invited  me  this  summer. 
"  If,"  said  he,  "  you'd  care  to  get  away  from  the 
theatrical  groove,  come  out  to  Klein-Reifling. 
Wonderful  country,  you  know.  We  can  play 
chess  every  evening.  You  don't  have  to  shoot 
deer,  if  you  don't  care  to."  I  don't  suppose  he 
asked  you  to  shoot,  either,  Sophie. 

Sophie  [dropping  the  letter].  Ah,  how 
stupid  we  are  I  Why  are  we  humans  created 
with  the  power  to  ruin  the  lives  of  people  who 
are  innocent  and  who  don't  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  it  all? 

Falk.  Understand?  Can't  Herbot  charge 
you  with  a  want  of  understanding?  Was  he  as 
bad  as  you  make  him  out?  Does  he  bother 
about  the  happiness  of  others?  What  are  other 
people  to  him?  To  him  who  is  accustomed  al- 
ways to  play  the  leading  part?  Supernumeraries 
—  people  who  never  get  a  curtain  call  and  die  in- 
gloriously  behind  the  scenes!  You  can  do  no 
wrong  to  such  people  when  you're  composed  of 
heroic  stuff  yourself^ —    What  is  it? 

Sophie.  He  —  he  is  coming.  I  hear  his 
footstep    and   my   heart's    going   pit-a-pat,    like 

57 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


a  young  girPs.     Oh,  it's  sheer  faint-heartedness. 

Falk.  On  the  contrary.  It's  just  as  it 
should  be. 

[Conrad  Herhot  enters.  He  is  a  man  of  about 
45  with  dark  curly  hair  and  a  pair  of  grey- 
striped  black  eyes.  He  is  wearing  an  over- 
coat  and  hat.'] 

Herbot.  Good  evening.  [Slaps  Falk  on  the 
shoulder.]  Well,  what  do  you  say,  old  chap? 
Now  I'm  at  home,  as  it  were,  even  though  this 
happens  to  be  —  for  the  time  being  —  nothing 
better  than  a  room  in  a  hotel.  [Pats  Sophie^s 
cheek.]  Good  evening,  dear.  [To  Falk.] 
She's  looking  extremely  well,  isn't  she?  And 
pretty  too  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  it's  quite  cozy  now 
that  she's  come  back. 

Falk.     I  second  that. 

Herbot.  The  last  few  hours  have  brought 
me  back  to  my  old  self  quite  remarkably,  and  it's 
almost  as  if  it  had  never  been  otherwise.  The 
two  months  are  dead  and  forgotten.  Holal 
Holal 

Sophie.  But  I  was  away,  wasn't  I?  You 
speak  now  as  the  Berliners  do. 

Herbot  [removing  his  overcoat].  Of  course. 
Of  all  things,  she  can't  bear  that.  [Exaggerat- 
ing the  Viennese  accent.]  Goin'  to  be  good  from 
now  on,  little  dearie? 

Falk.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  two  together  — 
newly-weds  just  home  from  church. 

Sophie.     Won't  you  stay  for  a  cup  of  coffee? 

Falk.  Thanks.  I  really  can't  stay  any 
longer.     [Sophie  rings.] 

Herbot.     Are  you  leaving  us  again  so  soon? 

58 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Falk.  I've  been  here  an  hour  already. 
Where  have  you  been  gadding  about  at  this  hour  ? 

Herbot  [glancing  at  the  clock'\.  Good 
Heavens,  it's  half  past  six  already.  Ah,  but 
there's  a  great  fascination  in  walking  about  the 
streets  when  you  know  there's  someone  at  home 
waiting  for  you. 

Falk.  Only,  as  I  remember,  it  wasn't  quite 
fascinating  for  the  person  who  had  to  wait. 
Well,  see  you  later  at  the  theatre.  [To  Sophie.^ 
I've  kept  your  box  for  you.  Outside  of  that  the 
house  is  all  sold  out. 

Herbot.    A  work  of  art  I 

Falk.     Goodbye. 

Herbot.  Now  that  you're  here,  I  want  to 
reiterate  that  you  don't  pay  me  half  the  salary 
that's  coming  to  me.  So  longl  Will  you  be  in 
the  box  too? 

Falk.  On  one  condition:  that  you  will  play 
your  part  with  some  deg^ree  of  intelligence. 

Herbot.  You  villain!  In  honor  of  this 
glorious  day,  suppose  we  drop  into  the  Kannen- 
berg  after  the  play  and  open  a  pottle  of  Sec  — 

Sophie.     Conrad  I 

Herbot.  What  —  is  it,  my  dear?  Oh,  al- 
right. [Mimicking  the  Viennese.']  Let's  have 
some  suds  instead  and  a  plate  of  goulash.  Eh? 
What  do  you  say  to  that? 

Falk.     That  depends  on  Sophie. 

[Waiter  enters,  receives  orders  from  Sophie 
and  goes  out.] 

Herbot  [catching  sight  of  the  manuscript]. 
What's  that? 

Falk.     The  play  I  spoke  about  this  morning. 

59 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Herbot.  Another?  Thank  God  Sophie's 
here  at  least.  My  vacation,  I  perceive,  is  over  at 
last.  I  have  about  a  half  dozen  of  them  over 
there.  Believe  me,  Falk,  I  tried  my  hardest  to 
look  through  one  and  then  another ;  and  the  result 
is  a  brain-storm. 

Falk.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it? 
[To  Sophie. 1  The  foremost  names  in  the  Ger- 
man dramatic  world. 

Herbot.  Well,  I  should  like  awfully  to  say 
something  straight  out  to  you,  Falk.  To  me 
every  play  at  the  reading  seems  pure  twaddle. 
And  in  the  majority  of  cases  I  am  right.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  with  many,  when  you  see  them  on 
the  stage  — 

Falk.  With  Conrad  Herbot  in  the  leading 
part. 

Herbot.  That  never  did  hurt  any  play. 
Doubtless  you  sometimes  feel  as  I  do,  that  all  this 
theatrical  clap-trap  is  the  merest  flummery. 
Backdrop  and  wings  I  The  curtain  goes  up  and 
the  curtain  goes  down,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten 
the  fellow  who  trafficks  on  the  boards  is  a  black- 
guard of  the  — 

Falk.     Leave  him  alone. 

Herbot.  Upon  my  word,  we're  the  most 
paradoxical  people  In  the  world,  we  actor-folk. 
In  private  life,  I  grant  you  quite  rational  —  quite. 
Then  we  strike  a  pose  behind  the  footlights  and 
mouth  some  bit  got  by  rote,  just  as  if  we  meant 
it  in  all  seriousness.  We  enter  and  we  exist  and 
out  front  the  audience  sit  gaping  and  whisper- 
ing behind  their  palms.  Incredible !  That  they 
should  fall  for  such  a  thing.     Do  you  know  what 

60 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


I  think  at  times?  That  this  so-called  art  of  the 
theatre  is  simply  an  invention  of  the  box-office. 

Falk.  a  powerful  and  eke  a  profound  ob- 
servation I 

Herbot.  True,  isn't  it?  And  yet  if  the  pub- 
lic were  informed  of  this  fact,  it  would  ruin  your 
business,  wouldn't  it?  Well,  for  the  time  being 
I'm  going  to  keep  it  to  myself;  but  some  day,  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  I'm  going  to  write  an  arti- 
cle to  this  tune  —  when  the  time  is  ripe  —  It 
would  make  a  splendid  Christmas  supplement. 
The  public's  very  fond  of  that  sort  of  thing. 

Falk.  You'd  better  wait  a  bit,  that  is,  until 
you've  stopped  drawing  a  salary.  Next  year  per- 
haps or  the  year  after. 

Herbot.  Oh  yes,  that  would  suit  you  to  a 
dot.  You  want  to  lay  by  a  pile  meanwhile. 
Well,  good  luck  to  you,  if  you  can  do  it.  Oh, 
and  by  the  way,  if  there's  going  to  be  a  raft  of 
junk  cluttering  the  doorway  of  my  dressing  room 
the  same  as  yesterday,  during  Tasso,  I'll  raise 
such  a  rumpus  — 

Falk.  And  If  you  fill  your  dressing  room  with 
cigarette  smoke  again,  I'll  give  you  two  weeks' 
notice  — 

Herbot.  Just  what  I'm  waiting  for.  Then 
I'll  be  able  to  lead  a  normal  life  for  the  rest  of 
my  days.  Lying  at  ease  on  the  grass  and  gazing 
up  at  the  blue  sky,  or  with  a  gun  plopping  through 
the  meadows  and  the  fertile  fields  — 

Falk.     With  a  gun  ? 

Herbot.  Certainly.  It's  not  a  bad  substitute 
for  the  stage.  '' 


6i 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Falk.  Did  my  chess  opponent,  the  fellow 
with  the  green  hat,  invite  you  too? 

Herbot.  Herr  von  Bolschau.  Of  course  he 
did. 

Falk.     It's  an  obsession  with  him. 

Herbot.  Charming  fellow,  Bolschau  is. 
Ask  Sophie.  She  likes  him  too.  Isn't  that  so, 
dear?  [In  Ber lines e."]  We  know  whom  to  like 
and  whom  not  to  like,  don't  we,  my  dear? 

Falk.  I  won't  let  you  go.  You've  no  busi- 
ness in  Klein-Reifling.  Well,  auf  wiedersehen. 
I  invite  myself  to  your  box,  Sophie.     [Goes.'} 

Herbot.  What  a  soul  that  man  has  I  In  our 
last  contract  I  fell  beautifully  for  him.  Well, 
he'll  have  to  shell  out  or  I  sail  for  America.  On 
this  side  they  pay  starvation  salaries.  Well, 
Sophie  [drawing  her  to  him'i,  here  we  are  to- 
gether again.  But  tell  me,  please.  Did  you  in- 
tend to  leave  me  for  good? 

Sophie.  Here  I  am,  back  again.  So  let's  not 
talk  about  it.     Let's  forget  it. 

Herbot.  Oh,  if  one  only  could  I  You've  no 
idea  what  I  suffered  while  you  were  away.  I 
wasn't  myself  at  all.  I  walked  about  as  in  a 
dream  —  as  in  an  evil  dream.  And  I  played 
comedy  parts  like  a  swine.  Not  always  —  but 
most  of  the  time. 

Sophie.     Yes,  that's  exactly  what  Falk  says. 

Herbot.  What?  The  impudence  I  I  was 
all  right  for  I  don't  know  how  long.  I  was  good 
enough,  even  for  the  public.  Too  good!  You 
should  penetrate  the  man  first.  For  a  measly 
hundred  marks  he'd  cut  his  throat.  But  they're 
ail  the  same,  every  one  of  them.     He's  spread- 

62 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


ing  the  rumor  about  that  I'm  going  back  home. 
But  nobody  believes  him.  They  have  eyes  and 
ears,  thank  Heaven  I  The  public  is  mine.  Now, 
and  for  a  long  time  to  come.  And  more  than 
ever,  now  —  now  that  you  have  come  back  — 
now,  believe  me.  Without  you  I  am  lost. 
That's  the  truth.  I  should  have  given  up  the 
legitimate  stage  and  gone  into  vaudeville.  In 
vaudeville  there's  a  better  chance  to  travel  and,  on 
the  whole,  it  pays  better.  [  The  waiter  brings  tea, 
pastry  and  sets  the  tea-table.^ 

Herbot.  I'll  tell  you  what:  In  February 
I'm  going  to  take  time  out  and  we'll  go  to  the 
Riviera.  I  won't  accept  your  "  no."  By  God, 
I've  earned  it.  Since  the  time  I  was  a  boy  I've 
longed  to  go  there,  and  today  I  am  43.  Con- 
nected almost  tw.enty  seven  years  with  the  theatre. 
Twenty  seven.  "  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  a  mere 
youngster,  he  ran  away  " —  but  you  know  the  rest. 
[Waiter  goes  out.'] 

Sophie  [pouring  tea].  Until  today  I've  been 
unable  to  nnd  out  from  whom  you  ran  away. 
Your  parents  were  reconciled  to  the  idea  of  your 
going  on  the  stage. 

Herbot.  Why,  of  course.  You  see,  at  the 
age  of  14,  I  acted  all  kinds  of  parts  at  home. 
"  The  late  lamented  actor  by  appointment  at  the 
Hoftheatre  at  Bayreuth,  Herr  Story,  who  in  the 
youngster  devoted  to  Thespis — "  and  so  on. 
[Notices  the  card.]     Who  is  Vilma  Flamm? 

Sophie.     Vilma  Flamm  is  a  young  lady. 

Herbot.     What  kind  of  a  young  lady? 

Sophie.  A  young  artiste  with  whom  you  had 
an  engagement  here. 

63 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Herbot.     An  engagement? 

Sophie.  You  were  going  to  see  if  she  had  any 
talent.     She  wrote  you  eight  days  ago. 

Herbot.  Oh  yes,  the  little  goose!  I  hope 
you  speedily  showed  her  the  door. 

Sophie.  Of  course.  But  you  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  her. 

Herbot.  Not  unlikely.  You  know  some- 
times one  replies  and  sometimes  one  doesn't. 
Was  anybody  else  here? 

Sophie.     Not  today. 

Herbot.  Well,  if  that  sort  come,  just  put 
them  out.  You  have  plein  pouvoir.  I  don't  give 
try-outs,  I  do  not  instruct.  I  do  not  write  in  au- 
tograph albums.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may 
have  been  a  blackmailer.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can 
remember  the  name  of  Vilma  Flamm.  [  They  sif 
at  the  tea-table,] 

Sophie.     You  always  had  a  poor  memory. 

Herbot.  You  don't  expect  me  to  have  a 
memory  for  such  things.  Just  consider  what  I 
must  cram  into  my  head,  as  it  is.  The  godlike 
words  of  the  master  creations  of  our  great  poets 
—  and  all  that  modem  rot,  besides.  Naturally 
there's  hardly  any  room  for  anything  else. 

Sophie.     For  nothing  at  all? 

Herbot.  To  be  quite  frank,  the  function  is 
under  my  control.  I  remember  and  I  forget,  just 
as  it  pleases  me.  And  I  assure  you,  Sophie  —  I 
know  what's  passing  through  your  mind  now  — 
if  I  should  casually  meet  a  certain  lady  in  the 
street,  I'd  cut  her  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
I  should  not  recognize  her  at  all.  If  I  should  at- 
tempt to  recall  her  features,  it  would  be  in  vain. 

64 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


She  is  a  shadow,  a  ghost,  your  old  grandmother, 
if  you  like. 

Sophie  [bursting  out].     How  could  you  do  it? 

Herbot.     Yes,  how  could  I  do  it? 

Sophie.     Her  fiance  was  your  friend. 

Herbot.  Not  friend;  hardly  that.  Still,  I 
confess,  it  was  a  rascally  thing  to  do.  And,  be- 
ing aware  of  that,  I  was  amply  prepared  to  pay 
the  price. 

Sophie.  You  were  —  when  were  you  pre- 
pared? 

Herbot.  That  very  morning,  Sophie.  When 
I  returned  home  from  her  arms  —  I  beg  your 
pardon  —  and  found  you  gone  and  your  farewell 
note.  Those  terrible  words  I  When  I  realized 
that  I  had  lost  you  —  lost  you  for  ever,  do  you 
know  what  agony  I  suffered?  I  resolved  then  to 
go  to  him,  confess  what  a  scoundrel  I  was  and 
frankly  tell  him  that  I  had  betrayed  my  wife  and 
seduced  his  fiancee  —  and  so  on.  For  hours  and 
hours  in  the  early  morning  dusk  I  wandered  along 
the  river-bank  and  fought  a  terrific  struggle  with 
myself,  until  I  saw  that  I  dared  not  do  it.  If 
only  for  the  sake  of  Daisy's  family.  But  they 
were  gloomy  days  to  bear,  Sophie,  those  last  five 
days  in  our  country  villa  —  and  perhaps  the 
greatest  ordeal  of  all  was  the  need  of  lying,  the 
need  of  going  on  lying. 

Sophie.     You  mean — ? 

Herbot.  Well,  you  see  I  had  to  find  some 
plausible  excuse  ifor  your  sudden  departure. 
And  so  in  my  desperation,  I  invented  the  yarn  of 
a  drain  bursting  in  our  Berlin  apartment.  Oh, 
I  sketched  in  the  details  —  details,  whole  letters 

65 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


from  you,  humorous  turns  of  expression.  Can 
you  imagine  it !  In  this  way  I  had  to  drag  on  my 
life,  on  my  lips  a  drain  burst  and  in  my  heart  — 
death.  Yes,  dearest,  it  was  by  no  means  easy  to 
live  out  the  day  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  tak- 
ing your  morning  bath  as  before,  eating  breakfast, 
sailing  — 

Sophie.  As  if  nothing  had  happened.  Both 
day  and  night. 

Herbot.  Sophie,  upon  my  word,  on  that  day 
when  you  went  away  I  was  done  with  — 

Sophie.  Don't  pledge  your  word.  Oaths  are 
not  necessary  in  rererence  to  the  past.  The  past 
is  buried,  dead  and  buried. 

Herbot.     Yes,  buried  a  long  time  ago. 

Sophie.  But  the  future,  that  belongs  to  us,  if 
you  are  willing. 

Herbot.  If  I  am  willing?  If  I  am  — 
Sophie,  dear! 

Sophie.  And  I  beg  of  you,  Conrad,  above 
all  things  be  truthful.  It  is  the  one  thing  I  de- 
mand of  you.  I  can  understand  everything.  I 
can  forgive  everything.  Only,  I  beg  of  you, 
don't  put  on  the  comic  spirit.  Don't^ — in  my 
presence.  It  isn't  necessary.  Everything  which 
you  have  just  said,  was  not  you.  There  was 
an  occasional  gleam  which  shone  through  your 
mask,  but  you  —  your  inmost  self  —  it  was  not 
that;  that  you,  I  mean,  which  abides  in  the 
recesses  of  self,  very  deep  within.^  And  I  can- 
not resist  the  feeling  that  that  which  you  are  is 
somehow  good  —  somehow  —  and  on^  that  I 
place  my  trust.  You've  only  got  to  believe  in  it 
yourself.     Deep  in  the  begmnings  of  your  con- 

66 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


sciousness,  I  feel  —  oh  so  vividly  —  that  you  are 
a  mere  child,  nothing  but  a  child.     So  — 

Herbot.  a  child?  There  may  be  a  good 
deal  in  what  you  say.  I  have  something  to  con- 
fess to  you,  Sophie.  Whenever  I  start  intro- 
specting or  dreaming  about  myself,  I  invariably 
see  myself  not  as  a  somewhat  mature  person  with 
iron  grey  hair,  but  rather  as  a  small  boy  who 
is  always  being  led  by  the  hand  of  somebody,  by 
his  father  or  his  tutor,  though,  to  be  sure,  I  never 
had  a  tutor.  I'm  quite  amazed  sometimes  —  but 
you  must  promise  me  not  to  let  this  go  further  — 
that  people  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  quite  rational 
and  wholly  grown-up;  while  I  feel  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  say  to  them,  "  Please  let  me  be.  I 
can't  make  head  or  tail  of  your  twaddle.  By 
nature  I  am  alien  to  your  confidence."  Yes  in- 
deed, Sophie,  that  was  a  singularly  apt  observa- 
tion —  I  am  a  child.  [A  knock  is  heard.'\  Who 
the  deuce  can  that  be?  Come  in.  [Enter  boy 
with  card.J 

Herbot  {ignoring  it"].  I  am  not  at  home. 
[Reads  the  card  and  starts."]     Eh? 

Sophie.  What  is  it?  [Takes  the  card  out  of 
his  hand.]     Edgar  Gley  —  Edgar  — - 

Herbot.  You  heard  what  I  said.  I  am  not 
at  home  to  any  one.  I  play  tonight  and  I  am 
busy. 

Sophie.     You  must  see  him,  Herbot. 

Herbot.     Must?     I  don't  see  that. 

Sophie  [to  the  Bell-hop].     Wait  a  minute. 

Herbot.     Where  is  the  gentleman  waiting? 

Bell-hop.     In  the  lobby,  sir. 

Sophie  [under  her  breath  to  Herbot].     You 

67 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


can't  avoid  this  interview.     The  sooner  it  is  over, 
the  better. 

Herbot.  Show  the  gentleman  in.  [Bell-hop 
goesJ] 

Sophie  [anxiously  and  quite  earnestly'].  Con- 
rad— 

Herbot.  \Yhat  is  it?  Certainly  it  shows 
lack  of  consideration  just  before  Hamlet, 
[Walking  back  and  forth.'] 

Sophie.  Are  you  sure  you  iiaven't  heard 
from  him  since? 

Herbot.  I've  told  you,  haven't  I?  Not  for 
two  months  —  it's  quite  incredible  that  he  should 
suspect  anything.     It  can't  be  about  her. 

Sophie.  How  does  he  come  to  be  here,  in 
Berlin  ?  She's  in  Vienna.  Last  we  heard  of  him 
he  was  in  Villach  attached  to  the  governor's  suite 
—  and  suddenly  he  is  here. 

Herbot.  On  furlough,  no  doubt.  After  all, 
Berlin's  a  rather  interesting  city  — 

Sophie.  Are  you  sure  you  weren't  imprudent? 
You  must  have  climbed  through  her  window  at 
night.     Someone  must  have  seen  you  — 

Herbot.  Certainly  not  he.  Otherwise  he'd 
have  paid  me  a  visit  before  today. 

Sophie.  Nonsense  1  This  once  I  give  you 
leave  to  lie. 

Herbot.  Thanks  for  the  privilege.  You 
can  trust  me  when  it  comes  to  that.  But  now  sup- 
pose you  go  into  the  salon.  If  you  should  stay 
within  hearing,  I  might  —  and  I  want  unlimited 
freedom.  If  I  felt  that  you  were  eavesdropping, 
I'd  be  uncertain  about  myself.     Now  — 

Sophie  [anxiously].     Conrad  — 

68 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Herbot.  Be  at  rest,  dearest.  [He  caresses 
her  hair.  As  he  is  about  to  draw  her  close  to 
him,  she  fends  him  of  gently  and  goes  into  the 
adjoining  room.  For  a  space  he  remains  mO' 
tionless,  then  takes  up  the  discarded  manuscript, 
turns  the  pages  idly  and  at  length  lights  a  ciga- 
rette. Growing  perceptibly  impatient,  he  rises, 
goes  to  the  door  on  the  right  and  listens.  There 
is  a  knock.  He  tiptoes  noiselessly  back  into  the 
centre  of  the  room  and  pretends  to  be  absorbed 
in  reading  the  manuscript.  There  is  a  second 
knock.] 

Herbot.     Come  in.     [Edgar  Gley  enters."] 

Edgar.     Good  evening. 

Herbot.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Gley.  I'm  de- 
lighted to  see  you,  even  though  this  be  only  an 
hotel  apartment. 

Edgar.  I  don't  wish  to  keep  you  long,  Mr. 
Herbot. 

Herbot.    You  know  I  play  tonight. 

Edgar.     I  know. 

Herbot.  I  have  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
to  spare.  Won't  you  take  a  seat?  My  wife  will 
regret  missing  — 

Edgar  [slightly  taken  aback].  Your  wife  — 
is  here? 

Herbot.  Of  course.  Where  then  should  she 
be?  She  went  away  for  a  couple  of  weeks  — 
Ah,  you  know  our  apartment  was  in  a  terrible 
mess.  You  remember,  don't  you?  I  believe  I 
told  you  about  it  —  a  drain  burst.  Tomorrow 
or  the  day  after  tomorrow  it  will  be  in  shipshape 
again.  The  place  was  almost  flooded.  Quite  a 
bother,  let  me  tell  you.     And  ten  thousand  marks* 

69 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


damage  at  the  very  lowest  estimate.  When 
everything  is  repaired,  we  will  entertain  as  be- 
fore. I  regret  most  of  all  the  loss  of  several 
irreplaceable  specimens  of  handwriting.  I  am, 
as  you  are  aware,  a  collector  of  ancient  examples 
of  handwriting.  Are  you  interested  in  that  sort 
of  thing?  [Edgar  starts  to  speak  but  restrains 
himself  as  if  lacking  courage.^ 

Herbot  [noticing  the  effort'\.  But  I  see  I'm 
boring  you  about  myself  and  my  affairs.  How 
is  your  fiancee  ?  I  presume  you've  just  come  from 
Vienna. 

Edgar.  No,  straight  from  Villach.  I  have 
something  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Herbot.  Please  an- 
swer "  yes  "  or  "  no."     Were  you  Daisy's  lover? 

Herbot  [rising'].  I — ?  Mr.  Gley,  I'm 
afraid  I  do  not  follow  you.  What  evil-minded  — 
slander-monger  — 

Edgar.  It  is  quite  obvious  that  you  must  take 
this  stand.  But  it  is  equally  obvious  that  noth- 
ing is  proved  by  your  disavowal.  [Herbot  is 
about  to  interrupt.]  Your  word  of  honor  proves 
nothing  either. 

Herbot.  Unfortunately  a  man  has  nothing 
outside  his  word  of  honor  which  he  can  call  his 
own.  There  are  people  who  would  be  satisfied 
with  Conrad  Herbot's  mere  word  of  honor. 

Edgar.  In  a  matter  of  this  sort,  do  you  think? 
Unfortunately  I'm  not  in  a  position  to  — 

Herbot.  Well,  at  all  events,  will  you  tell  me 
from  what  source  you  got  your  information? 
Will  you  be  good  enough  to  show  me  the  anony- 
mous letter  ?     I  shall  soon  prove  to  you  — 


70 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Edgar.  Let's  not  trifle  about  that.  I  ask  you 
again :     Were  you  Daisy's  lover  ? 

Herbot.  Since  you  don't  care  to  reveal  the 
source  of  this  brazen  —  no,  the  grounds  of  your 
libellous  suspicion;  and  since  you  make  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  defend,  frankly  to  deny  the  charge, 
I  therefore  propose  to  you,  Mr.  Gley,  that  we 
leave  the  young  woman  entirely  out  of  the  dis- 
cussion and  confine  ourselves  to  the  simple  fact 
that  my  nose  is  an  eyesore  to  you.  I  promise  you 
that  I  shall  feel  as  injured  as  you  please  and  — 
we  will  arrange  to  meet  in  one  of  those  delightful 
little  glades  yonder! 

Edgar.  Mr.  Herbot,  I  don't  feel  disposed  to 
doubt  your  mood  and,  I  take  it,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion about  mine.  Don't  let's  go  through  a  scene 
of  high-sounding  words.  Mr.  Herbot,  we  want, 
if  possible, —  and  to  me  it  is  possible  —  to  talk 
like  two  men  —  no,  let  alone  every  vanity  and 
every  question  of  honor  in  the  accepted  sense, 
like  two  human  beings.  I  ask  you  for  the  last 
time,  Mr.  Herbot,  please  to  abandon  the  man- 
ner you  have  assumed  thus  far.  I  don't  for  a 
moment  question  the  correctness  of  it.  But 
please  understand  that  a  human  being  confronts 
you  now,  Mr.  Herbot,  one  who  demands  noth- 
ing but  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  be.  You  fol- 
low me,  Mr.  Herbot?  One  who,  however  poign- 
ant it  may  be,  is  retdy  to  bear  it.  Understand 
me,  please,  Mr.  Herbot,  I  come  neither  in  the 
guise  of  a  fool  nor  as  an  avenger  to  one  who  is 
either  a  knave  or  who  has  been  unjustly  so  ac- 
cused. Human  to  human!  If  it  fell  out  as  I 
suspect,  Mr.  Herbot,  it  probably  was  no  dastardly 

71 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


act.  If  otherwise,  then  it  wasn't  very  far  from 
it.  But  no  matter  what  has  happened,  nothing 
in  the  world  could  force  us  to  face  one  another 
with  pistols  so  that  one  of  us  might  —  [Herbot 
starts  to  speak.1 

Edgar.  Not  yet.  You're  going  to  go  on 
lying,  I  suppose.  But  please  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say.  I  have  lived  through  many  things 
—  I  know  what  a  mere  fragrance,  what  the  per- 
fume of  summer  evenings  can  do  with  us.  I 
know,  too,  how  far  behind  us  we  can  thrust  our 
lot  like  a  dream  which  has  been  told  as  a  tale 
by  a  stranger.  And  I  know  that  I  am  prepared 
to  endure  anything,  except  uncertainty.  I  can 
forgive  everything  but  lies.  See  how  easy  the 
truth  is  made  for  you  I  I  trust  you  are  beginning 
to  understand.  Or  do  you  suspect  perhaps  that 
I  am  laying  a  trap  for  you,  unawares.  I  have,  I 
think,  surrendered  myself  completely  into  your 
hands,  Mr.  Herbot.  I've  stood  here  like  the 
most  pitiful  clown.  If  I  had  wanted  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  your  confession  and  entrap  you  and 
then  to  reassume  the  affronted  bridegroom;  if 
this  were  so,  you  would  be  at  liberty  to  deny  me 
all  satisfaction,  spit  in  my  face  for,  whatever  you 
may  have  done,  I  should  have  been  viler  than 
you  by  far.  Can  you  hesitate  still,  Mr.  Herbot? 
Never,  I  feel,  has  one  man  spoken  to  another  as 
I  have  done  to  you.  Were  you  Daisy's  lover? 
You  are  silent?  You  must  speak.  You  must 
speak  the  truth,  before  it  is  too  late.  Yes,  Mr. 
Herbot,  before  it  is  too  late.  For  should  I  cas- 
ually learn  the  truth  later  —  and  things  of  this 
sort  are  known  to  exist;  there  are  such  things  as 

72 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


belated  confessions  by  women  —  then  I  won't 
fight  a  duel  with  you,  then  I'd  strike  you  down 
like  a  — 

Herbot.  Stop.  Go  no  further.  I  —  I  am 
at  your  disposal.  Yes,  at  your  disposal  ?  There 
is  no  way  out  of  this  for  you  or  me. 

Edgar.     Then  you  were  Daisy's  — 

Herbot.  I  was  not.  And  yet  one  of  us  must 
die. 

Edgar.  The  truth!  The  truth  I  Mr.  Her- 
bot. 

Herbot.  What  are  words — ?  Now  if 
someone  had  predicted  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
can't  say  more.  [He  goes  to  the  window  ap- 
parently moved.  However,  unobserved  of  Ed- 
gar he  steals  a  glance  at  the  clock.  For  a  space 
he  remains  standing  at  the  window.^ 

Edgar.     Speak  out,  Mr.  Herbot. 

Herbot  [turning  toward  him  again"].  Child 
of  man,  how  simple  the  world  appears  to  you  I 
Yes  and  no;  truth  and  falsehood;  faith  and  de- 
ception. Oh,  if  it  were  only  as  simple  as  that, 
young  f r  —  Mr.  Gley.  But  it  is  not  as  simple 
as  that.  By  Heaven,  if  I  were  of  your  mould, 
it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world,  in 
order  to  set  your  troubled  mind  at  rest,  to  answer 
your  question  exactly  as  you've  asked  it.  Yes,  it 
would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  if  some- 
body else  had  come  instead  of  you  —  you,  Edgar 
Gley,  who  have  been  a  stranger  to  me  until  now. 
If  somebody  else  had  come  —  one  of  the  dozens 
of  commonplace  folk  whose  life  does  not  touch 
mine,  I  should  have  let  him  go  back  to  the  banal 
world  whence  he  came.     To  him  I  might  say  — 

73 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


no,  swear  that  nothing  happened.  But,  at  the 
risk  of  your  calling  me  inhuman,  I  cannot  an- 
swer you  that  way.  For  it  would  be  the  most 
cowardly  of  lies.  It  would  be  one  of  those  lies 
one  could  swear  to  before  the  law.  And  behind 
it  all,  there  would  still  be  something  unsaid,  sim- 
ple yet  different  —  confoundedly  simple,  don't 
you  know?  And  that  would  be  to  answer:  It 
happened,  Mr.  Gley.  Daisy  was  my  mistress  — 
and  then  to  take  you  at  your  word,  to  dismiss  you 
and  exult  that  the  way  is  clear  and  to  flatter  my- 
self again  with  hope,  like  an  old  fool,  that  now 
that  the  young  chap,  the  lover,  the  fiance  is  out 
of  the  way,  the  impossible  will  come  to  pass. 
And  one's  maddest  wish  would  be  granted.  And 
can  you  be  certain  that  you  will  not  be  up  to  these 
damnable  tricks  when  you're  not  over-clever. 
You  don't  perceive,  fool  that  you  are,  that  the 
dream  cannot  last;  that  it  must  perish  with  dis- 
illusionment, regret  and  denunciation.  Well, 
Edgar  Gley,  I  loved  your  fiance.  I  adored  her. 
I  wanted  to  break  away  from  my  wife.  I  loved 
Daisy  —  like  a  schoolboy.  I  didn't  keep  my  love 
a  secret  from  her.  I  wrote  verses  to  her  —  old 
Herbot,  mind  you,  wrote  verses,  paced  back  and 
forth  under  her  window,  stole  softly  into  her  gar- 
den, threw  his  tender  billets-doux,  like  Romeo, 
through  the  window —  [Pauses  suddenly  as  if 
something  had  just  occurred  to  him.'\  Ah,  now 
I  see  everything.  Someone  must  have  seen  me. 
Someone  must  have  spied  me  one  night  in  the 
garden  or  perhaps  in  the  wherry  directly  opposite 
the  house.  But  who  can  it  have  been?  You've 
received  anonymous  letters :  admit  it. 

74 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Edgar.     That's  unimportant.     Go  on. 

Herbot.     What  else  do  you  want  to  know? 

Edgar.  You  made  love  to  Daisy  —  and  she 
quietly  let  you. 

Herbot.     Let  me  —  I  can't  deny  it. 

Edgar.  Read  your  letters  ?  [^Herbot  smiles. '\ 
And  replied  to  them  ?     Please  answer. 

Herbot.  You  will  not  begrudge  me  that,  Mr. 
Gley. 

Edgar.     I  am  sorry. 

Herbot  [with  the  express  purpose  of  discount' 
ing  the  truth  of  the  words  he  is  about  to  utter'\. 
I  possess  nothing  in  writing  — 

Edgar.  Mr.  Herbot,  lies  are  lies.  If  you 
seek  to  mislead  me  regarding  a  minor  detail,  how 
do  I  know  that  the  rest  also  — 

Herbot.  Don't  persist  in  that  belief.  Let's 
break  off  right  here. 

Edgar.     Impossible. 

Herbot.  Well,  then,  there's  nothing  else  I 
can  do.  Do  as  you  please,  Mr.  Gley.  I  am  en- 
tirely at  your  disposal  — 

Edgar.  You've  gone  too  far  to  hold  back 
now.  I  promise  you  that  no  one  will  learn  the 
gist  of  this  conversation  —  not  even  my  fiancee. 
Don't  torture  me  any  longer.  You  have  my  word 
of  honor. 

Herbot  [after  a  rapid  pause,  rummages  in  his 
pocket  and  extracts  a  letter}.  Here's  a  letter 
from  Daisy  to  me.  [After  an  involuntary  start 
of  Edgar' S.J  Allow  me  to  read  it.  Later  you 
can  verify  whether  I  have  omitted  a  syllable. 
But  it  must  be  heard  in  the  proper  tone,  other- 


75 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


wise  it  might  be  misunderstood.  [Reads.] 
"  Conrad  Herbot,  I  beg  of  you,  go  away." 

Edgar.     When  was  this  written? 

Herbot  [showing  date].  August  27th,  a.m. 
[Reads.]  "  Don't  bring  unhappiness  to  people 
who  have  never  wronged  you.  Do  not  forget, 
Conrad  Herbot,  what  you've  meant  to  me  long 
before  I  ever  knew  you.  Let  that  suffice.  When 
I  see  you  again  on  the  stage  in  one  of  your  glori- 
ous — "  Ah,  let's  skip  that.  "  Never  has  a 
man  of  your  sort — "  Rather  poignant,  this! 
Miss  Daisy  simply  means  that  she's  never  had  a 
man,  about  whom  she  used  to  read  in  the  papers, 
make  love  to  her.  And  so  and  so  on.  But 
please  listen  carefully.  [Reads.]  "  Remember 
that  you  have  a  fascinating  wife  who  loves  you 
and  that  I  am  engaged  to  one  who  loves  me  dearly 
and  whose  love  I  return.  Yes,  Conrad  Herbot, 
I  love  him  and  I  will  never  love  anybody  else. 
But  you,  Conrad  Herbot,  are  perilous  —  that's 
the  only  way  I  can  express  it.  Sometimes  I  feel 
as  if  I  hate  you.  I  implore  you  to  go  away  — 
please  go  away." 

Edgar  [taking  the  letter].  On  the  27th  and 
you  went  away — ? 

Herbot.     Several  hours  later. 

Edgar.     And  if  you  had  stayed  — ? 

Herbot.  Mr.  Gley,  I  might  have  stayed  with- 
out harm.  Through  this  letter  I  first  grew  aware 
of  my  "  perilousness  "  so  called.     Until  then  — 

Edgar.  But  you  yourself  just  said  that  you 
intended  to  — 

Herbot.  Uproot  you  from  Daisy's  heart? 
Yes.     I  don't  deny  it.     I  was  a  fool.     This  let- 

76 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


ter  brought  me  to  my  senses  with  a  shock.  "  I 
will  never  love  anybody  else." 

Edgar.  But  she  wavered.  This  letter  proves 
it  beyond  a  doubt.  She  wavered  between  you  and 
me.     And  it  depended  altogether  on  you  — 

Herbot  linterruptitiff].  I'd  believe  that  too, 
if  I  were  still  the  fool  today  I  was  for  about 
half  an  hour.  She's  always  been  yours.  But 
when  it  comes  to  fame  —  Ah,  my  young  friend, 
you've  no  idea  what  a  pretty  dance  that  leads  a 
young  girl's  heart?  We  never  know,  we  poor 
mortals,  whether  it  is  genuine  passion  or  simply 
the  fragrance  of  immortality  wafting  about  us. 
Quite  frankly,  I  envy  the  men  who  have  never 
had  to  doubt  whether  they  were  loved  for  them- 
selves alone.  Were  I  not  Conrad  Herbot,  but 
the  same  as  any  other  man  —  a  landed  proprietor 
from  Klein-Reifling,  for  instance, —  doubtless  I 
should  have  appeared  ridiculous  to  your  fiancee. 
But  Conrad  Herbot  went  daft  about  her  —  and 
that  touched  her  a  bit.  She  realized  quite  clearly 
that  she  was  Conrad  Herbot's  last  love,  and  I 
suppose  a  moment  came  when  she  almost  be- 
lieved the  emotion  to  be  love.  She's  not  the 
first  who's  felt  that  way.  But  guilty  —  if  I  may 
mention  the  word  in  the  same  breath  with  all  this 
—  I  was  guilty,  I  alone.  It  would  never  have 
gone  as  far  as  it  did,  not  even  up  to  the  letters, 
if  I'd  been  able  to  conceal  my  feelings.  But  that 
was  beyond  me.     Like  a  fatality  it  swept  over  me. 

Edgar.  You  intended  to  leave  your  wife,  you 
said  a  moment  ago.  She  went  away  before 
you  — 

Herbot  [cutting  in  quickly'].     Not  on  account 

77 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


of  the  pipe-leak.  You  may  rest  assured  of  that. 
She  went  away  because  I  was  unable  to  cover  up 
the  true  state  of  my  emotions.  I  kept  no  secrets 
from  her.  She's  a  wonderful  woman.  Directly 
upon  receiving  this  letter  and  my  flight  from 
Daisy,  I  told  her  all  about  it.  I  begged  her  to 
come  to  me,  to  stand  by  me,  to  rescue  me  from 
utter  despair.  But  she  thought  it  unworthy  to 
live  with  me  so  long  as  my  heart  was  given  to  an- 
other. She  wanted  to  come  back  only  when  I 
could  write  to  her  with  a  peaceful  conscience  that 
the  last  embers  were  extinguished.  Three  days 
ago  I  found  that  I  could  write  her  that.  She's 
been  here  since  yesterday,  and  tomorrow  old  Her- 
bot  will  be  in  his  home  again. 

Edgar.     Why  didn't  she  tell  me  all  this  ? 

Herbot.  Can't  you  really  guess,  Mr.  Gley, 
how  near  she  was  to  doing  it?  How  often  the 
confession  surged  to  her  lips  ?  I  —  I  have  seen 
it.  Thank  God,  it's  turned  out  differently.  It 
would  have  been  a  terrible  awakening  for  us  all. 

Edgar.     Why  was  she  silent  ? 

Herbot.  Shall  I  tell  you?  Because,  pos- 
sessing an  instinct  of  refinement,  she  knew  that 
that  which  externally  appeared  to  you  in  the  light 
of  a  confession  was  in  reality  a  bald-faced  lie. 
She  never  loved  me,  Mr.  Gley.  That  must  be 
apparent  to  you.  Never.  And  I  venture  that 
you,  Mr.  Gley,  may  go  through  the  wedding  cere- 
mony with  a  more  beautiful  sense  of  security  than 
many  another  young  fellow  who,  as  the  saying  is, 
has  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  his  fiancee. 
Miss  Daisy,  as  it  were,  has  had  her  escapade. 
And,  I  am  sure,  that  the  day  will  come  when  she'll 

78 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


tell  it  to  you  herself.  She  will  tell  it  to  you  even 
before  you  lead  her  to  the  altar.  And,  if  you 
wish  to  oblige  me,  wait  until  then.  Don't  broach 
the  subject  yourself.  [Seeing  Edgar  is  silent.] 
How  absurd  of  mel  Of  course  you  won't  be 
able  to  keep  your  lips  locked  that  long.  Of 
course  you're  going  to  tell  her  everything.  You'll 
tell  her  that  I  showed  you  the  letter  too  — 

Edgar  [after  cursorily  glancing  through  it 
again,  flings  it  into  the  fire.'}  Never,  as  sure  as 
you  see  it  burning  to  ashes !  Of  this  letter  noth- 
ing shall  be  said.  And  nothing  shall  be  said  of 
this  visit  of  mine. 

Herbot.     Don't  promise  too  much,  Mr.  Gley. 

Edgar  [looks  at  hint].  I  promise  no  more 
than  I  think  I  can  keep.  Goodby,  Mr.  Her- 
bot. 

Herbot.  You've  something  else  to  ask  me, 
Mr.  Gley? 

Edgar  [staring  straight  at  him  a  long  time']. 
Nothing  whatever.  [Impulsively  extending  his 
hand.] 

Herbot  [almost  genuinely].  Be  good  to  her, 
Mr.  Gley.  Please  be  good  to  her.  [Edgar 
goes.] 

[Herbot  returns  from  the  door  with  a  serious 
expression  at  first,  then  a  self-satisfied  but 
not  quite  frivolous  smile  flits  across  his  face. 
He  glances  at  the  clock.  He  makes  a  ges- 
ture indicating  that  there* s  ample  time  yet. 
Rings.     Bell-hop  enters.] 

Herbot.  Will  you  please  ask  my  wife  to 
come  up?  She's  in  the  lobby.  [Bell-hop  goes 
out,     Sophie  comes  in  from  the  left,] 

79 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Herbot  {^turning  round  and  catching  sight  of 
her'} .     Oh  I  you  were  — 

Sophie.     Yes,  all  the  time. 

Herbot.  But  you  promised  me  —  Ah,  I  un- 
derstand. Perhaps  it's  better  so.  I  hope  you 
are  satisfied. 

Sophie.     Quite. 

Herbot.  It  wasn't  easy,  I  assure  you.  At 
the  outset  I  was  seized  with  something  like  a  first- 
night  nervous  fit.  Though  I  wasn't  unprepared. 
I  was  weak  at  the  beginning. 

Sophie.     Well,  you  carried  it  off  — 

Herbot.  But  didn't  it  come  a  cropper  as  I 
went  along?  You  thought  it  quite  different,  dear- 
est, didn't  you?  That  I'd  disavow  everything? 
But  only  fools  disavow,  sane  people  — 

Sophie.     Lie. 

Herbot.  Lie?  No,  Sophie,  don't  think  it 
was  unadulterated  falsehood.  Part  of  it  was 
true.  That's  the  rare  thing  about  it :  the  way  the 
truth  was  interwoven  with  the  falsehood.  That's 
why  it  looked  so  plausible.  Well,  thank  Heaven, 
we  can  breathe  freely  again. 

Sophie.  You  think — ?  Have  you  forgotten 
already?  Suppose  he  should  by  chance  learn  the 
truth  later  —  you  know  what  he  threatened  to 
do.  And  he  will  learn  the  truth.  It's  only  de- 
ferred. 

Herbot.  Nonsense  I  He'll  never  get  at  the 
truth.     That's  quite  sure. 

Sophie.  Sure?  He'll  talk  to  me.  Don't 
fool  yourself  about  that.  And  I  daresay  contra- 
dictions will  crop  up. 

80 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Herbot.     Contradictions  ?     Why  ? 

Sophie.  Especially  in  the  story  about  the  let- 
ter. How  will  you  explain  away  the  trumped-up 
letter? 

Herbot.     Trumped-up  ?     It  was  real. 

Sophie.     The  letter  was  real — ? 

Herbot.  Certainly  it  was.  Daisy  actually 
wrote  it.  But  not  on  the  27th  of  August.  On 
the  2nd.  It  was  a  simple  matter  to  interpolate 
the  7. 

Sophie.     I  don't  quite  understand. 

Herbot.  But,  sweetheart,  it's  quite  a  simple 
matter.  The  contingency  of  some  chatter-box 
gassing  about  us  had  to  be  taken  into  considera- 
tion. It  seemed  likely  that  an  anonymous  letter 
or  something  of  the  sort  would  come  up.  And 
so  I  arranged  with  Daisy  what  we  would  do  if 
something  like  that  happened.  It  was  evident 
that  a  bare  denial  would  not  clear  the  air.  And 
so  this  occurred  to  us  to  pull  us  through. 

Sophie.  Ah,  indeed.  Very  clever.  Now 
I'm  beginning  to  understand  — 

Herbot.  And  the  letter  —  I  read  it  beauti- 
fully, did  I  not  ?  It  seemed  as  if  created  for  the 
purpose  —  how  shall  I  put  it?  —  just  to  serve  us 
with  an  alibi. 

Sophie.     Extraordinary. 

Herbot.  There  are  no  other  letters.  Nor 
any  other  evidence  of  any  shape.  And,  you  may 
be  sure,  that  Daisy  will  take  care  of  her  end  of 
the  affair. 

Sophie.  We  hope  so.  But  I  don't  think 
she'll  come  any  way  near  you  in  that. 

81 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Herbot.  Maybe  better.  A  girl  of  her 
sort —  Trust  women  for  that.  They're  born 
with  the  Instinct.  But,  aside  from  that,  don't  you 
think  he  was  capital  ? 

Sophie.     He? 

Herbot.  Edgar  Gley.  Surely  he  had  the 
easier  task.  But  shall  I  tell  you  something  in 
confidence,  Sophie  ?  There  were  moments  when  I 
was  literally  swept  along  and  little  else  was  needed 
that  I  should  have  believed  the  whole  story  my- 
self. 

Sophie.     What  story? 

Herbot.  Oh,  you  overheard  it.  Somewhere 
near  the  close  of  the  scene.  It  seemed  as  if  noth- 
ing, absolutely  nothing  had  existed  between  the 
girl  and  myself.  It  was  like  a  stroke  of  genius, 
you  might  say.  [Falk  comes  in  wearing  his  over- 
coat and  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand.'\ 

Falk.  Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ?  Here  it  Is 
a  quarter  to  seven  I     What's  the  matter? 

Herbot.  Do  you  think  it  takes  me  an  hour 
to  get  into  Hamlet's  togs? 

Falk.  Paragraph  seven:  "All  performers 
in  the  current  production  must  be  in  their  dressing 
rooms  — "  Besides,  the  crown  prince  is  going  to 
be  present. 

Herbot.     Really,  and  the  princess? 

Falk.     And  suite. 

Herbot.  Now,  Sophie,  what  do  you  say  to 
that?  I  can  still  draw  the  best  people  to  the 
stalls  even  though  he's  about  disgusted  them  with 
his  tomfoolery.  Haven't  you  gone  and  raised  the 
price  of  seats?  Later  on  over  a  pottle  of  Sec 
we'll  talk  seriously  about  the  terms  or  my  new  con- 

82 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


tract.  Particularly  the  clause  referring  to  my 
leave  of  absence.  In  February  we  intend  taking 
a  trip  to  the  Riviera.     Isn't  that  so,  Sophie  ? 

Falk.     Are  you  or  are  you  not  going  to  — 

Herbot.  Well,  Sophie,  get  ready  as  quickly 
as  you  can.  Today  I'm  going  to  play  only  for 
you.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  let  his  Majesty 
or  the  Lord  be  present. 

Falk.  I'll  bet  you  wouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised 
if  the  Lord  came  to  Berlin  expressly  to  witness 
your  Hamlet. 

Herbot.  If  he  came,  he'd  get  a  ticket  to 
Rheinhardt's.     Don't  you  think  so? 

Falk.  In  any  case,  it  would  be  in  the  pa- 
pers. 

Herbot  ^quickly  caressing  Sophie  on  the  cheek 
and  kissing  her  forehead^ .  Addio.  A  rivederci  1 
[Takes  his  hat  and  overcoat  and  goes  oa/.] 

Falk.  He's  in  fine  spirits.  You're  not  quite 
as  gay.  You  stand  there  for  all  the  world  like  a 
piece  of  sculpture.  What's  the  matter ?  Scenes? 
Again  ? 

Sophie  [motionlessl.  No,  never  again.  Ev- 
erything's at  an  end. 

Falk  [after  a  brief  pause'\.  Well,  aren't  you 
going  to  dress  for  the  theatre  ?     Auf  wiedersehen. 

Sophie.  I'm  not  going  to  the  theatre.  I'm 
leaving. 

Falk.     What  do  you  mean? 

Sophie.  Tonight  —  in  an  hour.  Everything 
is  over  and  done  with. 

Falk.    What's  the  matter? 

Sophie.     I  can't  tell  you  in  a  word. 

Falk.    Oh,  I  don't  want  to  appear  too  press- 

83 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


ing.  I  can  do  without  the  scene  with  the  ghost, 
with  Hamlet's  father  I  mean.  But,  if  you  still 
regard  me  as  a  friend  — 

Sophie.  Why  should  I?  [After  a  short 
paused]     Edgar  Gley  was  here. 

Falk.     Oh  I 

Sophie.  He  wanted  an  explanation.  My 
husband  gave  it  to  him.  I  was  in  the  next  room 
the  whole  time?     I  overheard  everything. 

Falk.     Well? 

Sophie.  I  never  suspected  a  man  could  lie  that 
way. 

Falk.  Did  you  think — ?  You  ought  to  be 
glad. 

Sophie.  The  whole  thing  was  preconcerted 
and  planned  between  him  and  the  girl.  They 
anticipated  it.  And  my  husband  told  the  young 
fellow  a  story  about  his  being  daft  about  the  girl 
and  that  she  was  indiflferent  to  his  attentions. 
And  the  truth  is,  he  visited  her  night  after  night 
by  scaling  the  window. 

Falk.  Well,  you  couldn't  expect  him  to  tell 
Mr.  Gley  that,  could  you?  It's  much  better  to 
lie  artfully  in  these  affairs  than  not  at  all. 

Sophie.  You  should  have  heard  it.  And  he 
suspected  nothing  and  was  quite  happy  about  it. 
Oh,  if  you  had  heard  it  you  would  now  understand 
why  it's  impossible  for  me  to  live  one  day  longer, 
no,  one  hour  with  this  man  — 

Falk.     But  where  are  you  going? 

Sophie.  How  should  I  know?  Away  — 
away. 

Falk.     Don't  you  really  know? 

Sophie.    What? 

84 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Falk.  Where  you  want  to  run  away  to.  Or 
do  you  imagine  — 

Sophie.  If  it  were  as  you  insinuate,  do  you 
think  I  would  have  needed  a  subterfuge  to  go  ?  I 
am  going  to  no  one  I  I  simply  want  to  go  away, 
and  I  want  to  be  alone  —  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
alone. 

Falk.  That'll  never  do.  You  must  return  in 
two  weeks.  I  can't  give  you  a  longer  leave  of 
absence  than  that.     Our  contract  — 

Sophie.  How  can  you  jest  about  it?  Don't 
you  understand?  It  is  over  and  done  with  for- 
ever. Nothing  remains,  nothing  but  nausea,  no, 
horror,  an  overwhelming  horror  of  it  all.  How 
can  I  go  back  to  him  ?  One  can  go  back  to  a  man 
when  he  has  failed  miserably,  when  he  has  com- 
mitted a  crime,  when  he's  wounded  somebody  unto 
death;  one  can  go  back  to  one  who  is  repentant 
and  to  one  who  is  not  repentant.  But  a  man  must 
recognize  what  he's  done.  Herbot  doesn't  recog- 
nize it.  He  doesn't  understand  me  and  he  doesn't 
understand  himself  and  he  doesn't  understand 
anybody  else.  Love,  hypocrisy,  murder,  every- 
thing which  pervades  reality  is  of  no  greater  mo- 
ment to  him  than  if  he  were  playing  one  of  his 
parts.  He  and  I  speak  different  tongues,  and 
there  is  no  longer  an  interpreting  medium  between 
us.  If,  from  the  depths  of  my  despair  I  were  to 
throw  myself  out  of  the  window,  it  would  merely 
be  the  end  of  an  act  for  him.  The  curtain  falls 
and  he  goes  out  for  his  "  pottle  of  Sec."  A 
human  being  —  he?  A  maddened  harlequin, 
rather,  who  when  occasion  serves  is  also  ready  to 
play  the  human  being.     But  no  human  being  he  — 

85 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


no —     [Sinks  exhausted  on  the  divan  with  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands. '\ 

Falk.     Too  bad.     Too  bad. 

Sophie.     Oh,  your  pity  is  superfluous  now. 

Falk.  But,  dear  lady,  it  needn't  remain  this 
way.  How  differently  would  this  scene  have 
touched  you  which  he  seems  to  have  gone  through 
with  Mr.  Gley,  how  little  horrible,  how  much 
gayer,  how  glorious  even  would  the  scamp  have 
appeared  to  you  — 

Sophie.     If  I  had  been  worthy  of  him. 

Falk.  Naturally,  you  realize,  that  will  never 
be  —  can  never  be.  In  this  case  you  remained  the 
same  Sophie  throughout.  One  always  remains 
the  same.  But  you  should  have  taken  things  in  a 
lighter  vein.  Your  incredible  respectability  is 
what  brings  the  false  note  into  your  relation  with 
Herbot.  And  carrying,  as  you  do,  this  weight  of 
respectability,  you  know  in  your  heart  that  it  can 
not  help  matters.  If,  for  instance,  you  were  mar- 
ried to  a  man  of  the  type  of  Mr.  Gley,  a  gentle- 
man,—  to  betray,  as  the  phrase  is,  that  sort  of 
chap  is  indeed  a  detestable  thing,  because  in  the 
mind  of  the  Mr.  Gleys  of  the  world  an  act  of  be- 
trayal is  tremendously  significant,  undeserved  and 
degrading.  And  very  often  it  may  drive  the  Mr. 
Gleys  of  the  world  to  suicide.  With  the  Herbots 
it's  another  matter  entirely.  The  Herbots  pre- 
tend not  to  notice  it.  They  pretend  it  even  to 
themselves.     Somehow  they  soon  recover. 

Sophie.  You  speak  like  a  sophist  of  the  first 
water. 

Falk.  Only  in  the  capacity  of  theatrical  di- 
rector, I  assure  you. 

86 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


Sophie  [smiling}.  As  regards  theatrical  mat- 
ters, I  am,  from  now  on,  an  outsider.  Pardon 
me,  I  must  pack.  I  don't  want  him  to  find  me 
here. 

Falk.  Seriously,  are  you  leaving  —  today? 
Impossible. 

Sophie.     Quite  possible,  believe  me. 

Falk.     But  what  am  I  to  say  to  him? 

Sophie.  Tell  him  I  was  too  affected  by  his 
scene  with  Mr.  Gley  to  stomach  Hamlet  into  the 
bargain. 

Falk.     He'll  never  accept  that. 

Sophie.  Well,  then,  tell  him  the  truth — ^ 
that  —  I  — 

Falk.     Love  him. 

Sophie.  No,  that  I  hate  him.  And  that  I 
will  never  —  not  as  long  as  I  live  — 

Falk.  Hush  I  No  oaths.  One  should  never 
burn  one*s  bridges  behind  one.  You  see,  one  is 
put  in  a  very  embarrassing  position  trying  to  re- 
build them. 

Sophie  [crossing  over  to  the  left"].     Goodbye. 

Falk.  I  don't  want  to  keep  you  back  any 
longer.  Good  luck,  only  if  you  were  to  ask  my 
advice,  don't  run  away  to  utter  solitude,  but  to 
something  else  — 

Sophie.     Really,  you  are  — 

Falk.  You're  not  forced  to  do  anything,  not 
even  to  come  back,  if  you  don't  care  to.  You  can 
stay  there.  Perhaps  that  spells  your  lucky  star. 
Ah,  look  down,  Sophie.  Look  at  the  line-up  of 
motors.  Yes,  I'm  of  the  opinion  that  you  should 
forgive  him  something. 

S)PHIE.     I  might,  if  I  were  a  theatre  director. 

87 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Falk.  You  should,  as  a  wife.  It's  almost  a 
sacred  office  for  you. 

Sophie.    Oho  1 

Falk.  Forgive  and  —  take  your  revenge. 
The  latter  in  particular  has  a  rumored  sweetness 
about  it.  Well  auf  wiedersehen,  Sophie;  auf 
wiedersehen  soon.  \Answering  her  look.'\  Per- 
haps in  the  Styrian  woods.  You  know  I'm  invited 
to  go  hunting  too.  Or  at  least  to  play  chess.  A 
telegram  is  sufficient  and  I  come,  were  it  only  to 
call  for  you  and  to  escort  you  back  to  one  who  must 
be,  do  what  you  may,  your  inevitable  choice. 
There  are  less  noble  men,  Sophie  —  [  The  door 
in  the  rear  opens  and  Herbot  strides  into  the 
room,  clad  in  his  Hamlet  costume  with  a  half-hut' 
toned  overcoat  thrown  over  tV.] 

Falk.     What  —  ?    Are  you  mad? 

Herbot.  What's  the  matter?  Why  are  you 
taking  so  long,  Sophie?  I  peeped  through  the 
slit  in  the  curtain  and  didn't  see  you  in  your  box  — 
[Sophie  replies  with  a  frozen  stare.'\ 

Falk  \_goes  up  and  takes  him  by  the  shoul- 
der s'\.  Now  really,  do  you  wish  to —  It's  five 
minutes  after  seven. 

Herbot.  Let  them  wait  I  I  won't  go  on  a 
fraction  of  a  minute  before  Sophie  is  seated  in  her 
box. 

Sophie.     But  —  but  —  I  haven't  dressed  yet. 

Herbot.  I  don't  care  I  Come  with  me  as 
you  are. 

Falk  [to  Herbot].  See  that  you  get  a  move 
on  quickly,  do  you  hear? 

Herbot.  Sorry.  But  without  her  I  don't 
move  an  inch.     I  know.     I  know.     She  made 

88 


THE  BIG  SCENE 


up  her  mind  not  to  come  at  all.  She's  probably 
told  you  everything.  Memories  were  raked  up. 
But  look  at  her,  Falk.  As  she  stands  there  she 
is  like  a  ghost  carved  in  marble.  But  come  to 
me  —  come.  The  past  is  dead  —  stone  dead. 
Don't  you  understand  that  yet,  dear?  Try  not 
to  think  of  my  former  waywardness.  What, 
after  all,  do  my  escapades  with  other  women  mat- 
ter? Why  trouble  about  other  people?  I've 
never  loved  anybody  but  you.  If  you  refuse  to 
come,  I  won't  act.  For  all  I  care,  our  friend  here 
may  close  down  his  theatre. 

Falk.  Six  thousand  four  hundred  Marks. 
Of  course  you  can  make  that  up,  can't  you  ? 

Herbot.  The  nerve!  If  Hamlet  were 
played  by  some  one  else,  you  wouldn't  have  half 
the  house  you've  got  tonight.  And  if  you, 
Sophie,  are  not  in  your  box,  I  won't  act  today, 
nor  tomorrow  —  never  again  and  farewell  to  the 
stage.  [He  flings  the  sword  he*s  been  clutching 
from  him.'\ 

Falk  [at  the  window].  There  goes  Her 
Highness. 

Herbot.  A  fig  for  Her  Highness  I  Let  her 
turn  around  and  go  back  home,  your  Highness. 
There  is  but  one  High —  [He  is  suddenly  on 
his  knee  before  Sophie,  A  Theatre  Employee 
enters.] 

T.  E.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Herr  Direktor.  It 
is  seven-ten.  His  Royal  Highness  —  the  audi- 
ence — 

Falk  [to  Employee].     Ring  up  the  curtain. 

Herbot  [to  Theatre  Employee],  He  says 
so,  not  I. 

89 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Falk.  Ring  up  the  curtain  I  [The  Theatre 
Employee  ffoes.'} 

Sophie.     Get  up. 

Herbot.  Are  you  coming?  [Sophie  does 
not  reply  audibly  but  the  expression  on  her  face 
answers  in  the  affirmative. 1^ 

Herbot  [rising  to  his  feet  and  putting  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  he  takes  the  sword  which 
Falk  has  picked  «/>.]  "  Was  ever  woman  in  this 
humor  wooed?  " 

Falk.  That  isn't  Hamlet.  That's  Richard 
the  Third. 

Herbot.     Well  then,  arm  in  arm  with  you  — 

Falk.  That's  from  something  else.  You 
will  make  a  holy  mess  of  the  performance  to- 
night. 

Herbot.  Why  must  it  be  just  from  "  Ham- 
let "?  [Pressing  Sophie  close  to  his  side.J  Isn't 
it  a  lofty  line? 

Falk.  Are  you  ready?  [He  thrusts  them 
both  through  the  door.  The  door  for  a  moment 
affords  a  view  in  which  the  hotel  guests,  passing 
down  the  corridor,  gaze  astonished  at  the  pair. 
Falk  then  turns  the  lights  out,  goes  out  and  locks 
the  door."] 


[Curtain.] 


90 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 
A  Comedy  of  Words 

PERSONS 

Felix  Staufner,  writer. 

Agnes,  his  wife. 

Dr.  Guido  Wernig. 

Railway  Guard. 

Waiter. 

Buffet-Dispenser  (a  woman). 

Passengers  and  Station  employes. 

The  action  takes  place  in  the  railroad  waiting 
room  of  a  large  Austrian  city  in  the  mountains. 

[Scene:  Station  and  restaurant.  In  the 
rear  glass  doors  giving  onto  the  platform. 
Right  a  stairway  conducting  downstairs.  On 
the  left  is  the  buffet,  with  a  clock  above  it.  A 
number  of  tables,  covered  and  uncovered,  with 
chairs.  A  blackboard  near  the  middle  plat- 
form door,  right.  On  the  wall  are  time-tables, 
maps,  posters.  The  buffet  dispenser  is  busy 
behind  the  buffet.  Several  people  are  seated 
at  the  tables.  The  guard  stands  by  the  middle 
platform  door,  which  is  open.  As  the  curtain 
rises  the  train  has  just  come  in.  Passengers  en- 
ter from  the  platform  and  pass  through  the 

91 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


dining  room  on  the  right,  using  the  steps.  On 
the  left  Agnes  and  Guido  are  standing,  almost 
motionless,  with  their  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the 
door  as  if  expecting  someone.  When  the  last 
of  the  passengers  has  passed  through  the  wait- 
ing room,  Guido  steps  up  to  the  door  and  peers 
out  on  the  platform.  He  makes  a  step  as  if 
to  go  out  but  is  intercepted  by  the  guard. 
Agnes  in  the  meantime  has  also  loitered  up  to 
the  door."] 

Guido.     There's  no  one  else. 

Agnes.     Strange  I 

Guido.     Was  that  the  Innsbruck  train? 

[^The  Guard  locks  the  door."\ 

Guard.     No,  sir. 

Guido.     No? 

Guard.  That  was  the  Bavarian  express. 
The  Innsbruck  train  is  scheduled  to  arrive  at 
5.20. 

Guido.  Why  do  you  say  "  is  scheduled  to  ar- 
rive     r 

Guard.  Because  it's  almost  always  late. 
However,  there  has  been  no  report  yet. 

Guido.  You  mean  that  it  will  arrive  on 
time? 

Guard.  No,  that  it  will  be  late.  [Goes  of 
left  by  the  steps. '\ 

Guido  [glancing  at  the  clock"].  We  have  fully 
eight  minutes  before  us.      [Lights  a  cigarette.] 

Agnes.  Eight  minutes.  [Comes  down  and 
seats  herself  at  one  of  the  tables.] 

[The  Waiter  approaches  and  hovers  about.] 

92 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

GuiDO  [after  a  brief  pause  to  Agnes,  standing 
behind  her  chair"],     Agnes  — 

Agnes.     Guido — ? 

GuiDO  [seating  himself  beside  her].  Wouldn't 
it  be  a  better  idea  to  — 

Waiter.     Your  order,  sir? 

Guido.  Thank  you.  We  have  just  had  some- 
thing here. 

\_JVaiter,  slightly  piqued,  shrugs  his  shoulders 
and  goes  of  left.] 

GuiDO.  Wouldn't  it  be  better,  I  mean,  if  I 
waited  for  him  alone  ? 

Agnes.  Why  this  sudden  change  of  mind? 
Have  you  completely  lost  faith  in  my  determina- 
tion? Do  you  think  that  I  shrink  from  meeting 
him  face  to  face  — 

Guido.  No,  no.  I  have  the  greatest  confi- 
dence in  you.  But  I  repeat:  it's  quite  impossible 
to  foretell  how  he'll  take  the  news.  And  that's 
why  — 

Agnes  [rising  fervently] .  No.  We've  made 
up  our  minds.  We'll  wait  for  him  together.  In 
this  way  the  situation  will  at  once  be  made  clear 
to  him.  And  that  in  itself  is  a  big  advantage. 
No  superfluous  words  will  be  necessary.  It's  only 
fair  to  us  —  and  to  him.  We  owe  him  that 
much.  Or,  if  you  like,  I  at  least  owe  it  to  him. 
[The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  is  heard.  Agnes 
starts  but  does  not  turn.  Guido  rises.  A  rail- 
way employe  comes  from  the  platform,  meticu- 
lously locks  the  door  after  him,  and  writes  on  the 
blackboard:  "Express  No.  57  from  Innsbruck 
—  44   minutes   late."     He   intercepts   a   woman 

93 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


with  two  children  at  the  door  and  closes  it  again 
behind  him.  Guido  and  Agnes  have  not  turned 
around.  The  whistle  of  the  locomotive  dies 
away.'] 

GuiDO  [close  to  her'\.  Agnes,  do  you  love 
me? 

Agnes.     I  adore  you.     And  you? 

Guido.  You  know.  [Hastily.']  And  In  one 
hour  all  will  be  over.  Bear  that  in  mind.  To- 
morrow we  will  be  far  away.  Think  of  that  when 
you  face  him.     Together  —  forever  I 

Agnes  [somewhat  mechanically].  Forever  — 
[without   looking   round].     Hasn't   it   come   in 

yet? 

Guido  [turning  round].  The  eight  minutes 
are  up.     [The  Guard  re-enters.] 

Guido  [noticing  the  writing  on  the  hoard]. 
OhI 

Agnes  [following  his  glance].     What  is  it? 

Guido.     Delay;  forty-four  minutes'  delay. 

Guard.     More  likely  an  hour. 

Guido.  Here  it  is  very  plain,  forty-four  min- 
utes. Forty-four  I  I  dare  say  that's  calculated  to 
the  dot. 

Guard  [coldly] .     Oh,  she  may  make  it  in  less. 

[He  goes  over  to  the  buffet,  exchanges  a  few 
words  with  the  coffee-dispenser,  and  then 
goes  off.  Guido  and  Agnes  stare  at  one  an- 
other.] 

Guido.     That's  so. 

Agnes.     One  hour  — 

Guido.     Let's  go  outside  a  bit. 

Agnes.  But  it  hasn't  stopped  raining.  But  if 
you  want  to  take  a  walk  —  I'll  wait  for  you  here. 

94 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

I  prefer  to  look  at  the  illustrated  papers.  [Sits, 
taking  up  a  newspaper. '\ 

\_Guido  approaches  the  buffet  and  sets  his  watch 
by  the  clock."] 

Agnes  [gazing  at  him  with  a  smile'].  He  must 
be  pretty  impatient,  too,  in  his  compartment. 

GuiDO  [returning  to  her].  How  —  do  you 
mean,  Agnes? 

Agnes.  As  you  know,  he  telegraphed  that 
he  was  coming  from  Stubai  on  the  five-twenty 
train.  I  fancy  he's  under  the  impression  that  I'm 
waiting  for  him  after  these  six  weeks  of  separa- 
tion, and  that  together  we'll  take  the  train  back 
to  Seewalchen,  to  our  villa.  Well,  I  am  waiting 
for  him  —  only  it  isn't  quite  as  he  imagined  it. 

GuiDO.  It  would  be  more  agreeable  to  me  if 
you'd  refrain  from  going  off  on  a  sentimental  jag 
this  way. 

Agnes.  Sentimental — ?  I?  Would  I  be 
here,  if  I  were  sentimental?     [Brief  pause.] 

GuiDO  [making  conversation].  You've  missed 
the  six  o'clock  train  anyway. 

Agnes.     There's  another  at  seven. 

GuiDO.     Do  you  think  he'll  take  it  ? 

Agnes.  Why  not  ?  I'll  beg  him  to  —  And 
if  you  know  him  at  all,  he's  the  sort  of  man  — 
[Breaking  off.]  He'll  find  everything  at  home 
as  he  left  it.  I've  ordered  Therese  to  prepare 
everything  as  if  — 

GuiDO.  That  wasn't  quite  necessary.  If  he 
ever  loved  you  he  will  never  put  foot  into  a  house 
in  which  he  lived  with  you  for  five  summers  — 
[bitterly]  and  happily  at  that. 

Agnes.     Yes,  he  will.     He's  awfully  fond  of 

95 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


the  little  cottage  and  the  landscape.  At  any  rate, 
they  haven't  changed. 

GuiDO.  I'm  sure  he  won't  go  back  to  it  this 
year  any  more. 

Agnes.  If  he's  wise,  he'll  go  right  home  and 
sleep  there  tonight. 

GuiDO.  In  a  house  —  alive  with  such  mem- 
ories? 

Agnes  [staring  straight  ahead  of  her^.  Let's 
hope  that  he's  already  started  to  forget  me  on  the 
return  trip. 

GuiDO.     Do  you  imagine  that  he  will? 

Agnes.  Well,  isn't  it  the  best  thing  we  can 
wish  him?  [She  takes  a  newspaper  again  and 
pretends  to  be  absorbed  in  i7.] 

GuiDO  [eyeing  Agnes,  paces  up  and  down,  ad- 
justs his  watch  again,  then  stepping  up  to  her'\. 
We  might  take  something.  [Taps  on  the  table, 
then  takes  a  newspaper  and  flutters  the  leaves 
nervously,  glancing  all  the  while  at  Agnes,  who 
seems  quite  absorbed  in  reading,  calling  petu- 
lantly :]     Waiter. 

Waiter  [appearing,  still  slightly  piqued"]. 
Yes,  sir. 

GuiDO.  Bring  me —  [To  Agnes.]  What'U 
you  have? 

Agnes.     It's  immaterial  to  me. 

GuiDO.     Well,  bring  two  lemon  sodas. 

Agnes.  I  prefer  raspberry.  [Waiter  moves 
away.     Pause.     Guido  fixes  his  eyes  on  Agnes.] 

Agnes  [continuing  to  read;  smiling].  Here's 
something  about  you. 

GuiDO.     About  me  ? 

Agnes.     Yes.     "  Regatta  at  Attersee.     First 

96 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

prize,  Baron  Ramming,  yacht  Storm;  second 
prize.  Dr.  Guido  Wernig,  yacht  Watersprite." 

GuiDO.  Quite  right.  You  see,  such  insignifi- 
cant nobodies  like  myself  do  get  into  the  papers 
sometimes.  Of  course,  only  on  corresponding  in- 
significant occasions  —  and  then  they  capture  only 
second  prize. 

Agnes.  Next  time  it  will  be  the  first  —  on  an- 
other See. 

Guido.  You're  very  optimistic.  But  —  isn't 
it  the  hand  of  destiny? 

Agnes  [with  an  inquiring  glance'}.  The  sec- 
ond prize? 

Guido.  The  delay,  I  mean.  Once  again  you 
have  enough  time  to  think  it  over.  [^She  beckons 
him  to  draw  nearer."}  Perhaps  it  isn't  so  simple 
a  thing  as  you  imagine.  When  you've  once  been 
the  helpmate  of  a  great  man,  to  become  the  wife 
of  a  quite  ordinary  doctor  of  chemistry  — 

Agnes  [interrupting  him  quickly}.  In  the  first 
place,  Guido,  your  factory  in  your  particular  line 
is  quite  as  well  known  as  the  collected  works  of 
my  husband. 

Guido.  What  have  I  to  do  with  the  factory? 
My  father  founded  it  —  managed  it  —  I  am  only 
his  son. 

Agnes.  Besides,  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with 
Felix  because  he  was  a  great  man,  as  you  put  it. 
Whoever  heard  of  him  when  we  were  married  ? 

Guido.     But  you  foresaw  it  — 

Agnes.     Foresaw  it  —  yes. 

[Waiter  comes  with  sodas.  He  places  the 
glasses  on  the  table.  Agnes  and  Guido  are 
silent.     The  Waiter  moves  away.     Pause.} 

97 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


GuiDO.     Why  are  you  silent,  Agnes  ? 

Agnes  [staring  straight  ahead'].  How  mys- 
terious life  is !  Six  weeks  ago,  no  more  than  six 
weeks  ago,  I  crossed  the  lake  with  him  in  the 
small  steamboat  —  six  weeks.  I  said  good  bye  to 
him  almost  on  this  very  spot.  And  how  the  world 
has  changed  in  this  short  time  1  If  he  —  if  we 
had  guessed  that  bright  summer  day  — 

GuiDO.  Do  you  regret  it,  Agnes?  If  so, 
there  is  still  time. 

Agnes  las  if  waking  from  a  trance].  I  re- 
gret nothing  —  nothing.  All  that  has  happaned 
was  destined  to  happen.  Don't  you  know  I  real- 
ize that,  Guido?  And  all  that  has  happened 
points  to  our  happiness  together  —  and  also  to 
his. 

Guido.     His  ? 

Agnes.  I  have  no  doubt  he'll  thank  me  right 
off  seeing  I've  given  him  back  his  freedom.  Peo- 
ple of  his  sort  — 

Guido.     "  People  of  his  sort  — " 

Agnes.  Everything  in  life  has  its  deeper 
meaning.  It  is  well,  it  is  perhaps  profoundly  nec- 
essary that  he  should  from  now  on  dwell  in  soli- 
tude. 

Guido.  In  solitude — ?  What  do  you  call 
solitude  ? 

Agnes  [looking  up].  What  do  you  mean  by 
that? 

Guido.  Nothing,  but  what  you  imagine  your- 
self. 

Agnes.  Don't  try  to  evade  my  question. 
You  did  the  same  once  before  in  a  similar  circum- 
stance. 

98 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

GuiDO.     How  so?    When? 

Agnes.     On  the  train. 

GuiDO.  I'm  sure  my  allusion  is  not  beyond 
your  surmise.  The  suspicion  that  not  his  play 
alone  kept  him  in  Stubaital  six  weeks,  instead  of 
the  projected  three,  surely  is  not  new  to  you  to- 
day.    You  smile? 

Agnes.  It's  a  bit  amusing  to  me  the  way 
you're  trying,  very  obviously,  to  make  me  jealous. 

GuiDO.  Far  from  it.  But,  if  you'll  pardon 
my  saying  it,  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  your  seek- 
ing to  surround  your  —  your  former  husband  with 
a  kind  of  halo.  He  is  every  bit  of  a  human  be- 
ing. In  certain  respects  he's  not  a  whit  better 
than  I  and  — 

Agnes  [laughing'\.  And  you  —  you  wished  to 
say.     Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure. 

GuiDO.     Don't  misunderstand  me. 

Agnes.  Oh,  I  understand  you  perfectly. 
You  want  me  to  believe  that  Mademoiselle  X  — 

GuiDO.     Bianca  Walter  — 

Agnes.  Whose  postscript  is  on  the  picture 
post  card,  has  contrived  somehow  to  detain  my 
husband  — 

GuiDO.  You  husband  that  was  —  Herr  Felix 
Staufner. 

Agnes.     Felix  — 

GuiDO.  I'm  not  trying  to  convince  you,  I 
merely  make  the  statement. 

Agnes.  Without  evidence  you  can  prove  noth- 
ing.    Besides  the  truth  will  soon  out. 

GuiDO.     How  do  you  make  that  out? 

Agnes.     He  will  tell  the  truth. 

GuiDO.     In  all  probability  you  won't  have  to 

99 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


hear  it.  Aside  from  the  fact  that  it  is  immaterial 
to  you  and  that  the  moment  my  conjectures  are 
confirmed  you  will  be  pleased. 

Agnes.  I  shall  be  quite  happy  over  it.  Need 
I  tell  you  that?  Nothing  more  desirable  could 
happen  to  me  than  if  he  stepped  off  the  train  with 
Fraulein  Bianca  or  somebody  else. 

GuiDO.  I'm  afraid,  Agnes,  that  you  con- 
ceive life  as  too  simple  a  thing.  Mademoiselle 
X  — 

Agnes.     Bianca. 

GuiDO.  Will  not  accompany  him.  She  will 
remain  in  Stubai  for  the  present. 

Agnes.     With  her  mother? 

GuiDO.  Why  with  her  mother  ?  Why  bother 
about  her  mother  ? 

Agnes.  Because  her  name,  too,  is  on  the  pic- 
ture post  card.  However,  I  think  we  are  doing 
the  young  lady  an  injustice  and  celebrating  a  lit- 
tle prematurely.  Doubtless  she  is  a  respectable 
girl  of  good  family.  An  admirer  of  my  —  my 
Felix  Staufner,  just  like  her  mother.  [She  takes 
a  card  out  of  her  purse  and  reads :'\  "  Isabella 
Walter  and  her  daughter  cannot  omit  the  oppor- 
tunity of  gratefully  sending  their  heartfelt  greet- 
ings to  the  wife  of  the  master  — " 

GuiDO.     A  bit  wordy. 

Agnes.     But  very  unsuspicious. 

GuiDO.     You  carry  the  card  about  with  you  ? 

Agnes.     I  had  no  time  to  put  it  away. 

GuiDO.     You  have  answered  it,  then? 

Agnes.  Why  not?  It's  the  last.  It  arrived 
four  days  ago.  And  it's  positively  the  last  he's 
written  as  my  husband. 

lOO 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

[Guido  makes  as  if  to  take  the  card;  she  makes 
a  gesture  of  refusal  and  he  seems  hurtJ] 

Agnes.     Just  one  word. 

Guido.     What  sort  of  word,  if  I  may  ask? 

Agnes.     Auf  wiedersehen. 

[Guido  bites  his  lip.} 

Agnes.  Well,  doesn't  it  seem  proper?  I 
didn't  write  "  Auf  gutes  wiedersehen,**  or  "  Auf 
gluckliches  wiedersehen**  simply  "Auf  wieder- 
sehen.** 

Guido.  And  did  you  write  him  letters,  too, 
during  this  time  ? 

Agnes.     Only  one. 

Guido.    Well  —  well  I 

Agnes.  That  was  before  there  was  anything 
between  you  and  me ;  before  that  evening  —  when 
you  suddenly  appeared  in  my  garden  under  my 
window  —  and  called  my  name  in  the  dark.  Yes, 
in  this  way  one  sometimes  writes  a  farewell  letter 
without  suspecting  it  I  How  mysterious  life  — 
[Guido  has  taken  the  card  in  his  hand  and  seems 
bent  on  crumpling  it.} 

Agnes.     What  are  you  doing,  Guido  ? 

Guido.     You  love  him  still. 

Agnes  [earnestly}.  No,  Guido,  I  love  no  one 
but  you.  I  have  never  loved  anybody  —  not 
even  Felix  —  as  much  as  I  love  you.  [Grasping 
his  hand.}  But  I  shall  never  cease  [letting  his 
hand  go}  to  admire  and  to  respect  Felix  Stauf- 
ner;  to  be  spiritually  akin  to  Felix  Staufner,  the 
writer.  In  a  certain  sense  relations  such  as  ex- 
isted between  Felix  and  myself  can  never  alter  — 
never.  Tlie  fact  that  we  were  married  is  of  least 
importance.     Even  if  I  should  never  see  him 

lOI 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


again,  if  we  should  remain  miles  and  miles 
apart  — 

GuiDO  [interrupting'].  Yes,  if  you  would  only 
remain  miles  and  miles  apart  I  Well  and  good. 
Then  everything  would  be  all  right ;  then  I'd  have 
nothing  to  oppose  to  your  spiritual  relations. 
But,  unfortunately,  I  can't  spend  my  life  taking 
endless  trips.  I  must  be  back  in  harness  in  the 
damned  — 

Agnes.  Certainly;  I'd  never  permit  you  to 
give  up  your  profession.  You  must  work,  even 
if  it  isn't  absolutely  necessary.  I  don't  propose  to 
take  up  with  an  idler. 

GuiDO.  I  don't  intend  to  give  up  my  profes- 
sion. But  what's  to  prevent  my  practicing  it  else- 
where? I'll  speak  to  the  governor.  As  it  is,  he's 
been  planning  for  sometime  to  establish  a  branch 
office  in  Germany  or  America. 

Agnes.     Or  Australia. 

GuiDO.     The  farther  the  better. 

Agnes.     Guido  I 

GuiDO.  I  simply  can't  bear  to  have  you  meet 
your  former  husband  again. 

Agnes  [determined].  I  shan't  permit  you  at 
the  eleventh  hour  to  violate  all  our  stipulations. 
You  know  that  Felix  is  not  like  other  men  — 

Guido.  Do  you  really  believe  that  he  won't 
find  another  —  friend  very  soon  ? 

Agnes.  A  friend?  No.  Never.  A  mis- 
tress—  certainly.  And  whether  her  name  be 
Bianca  or  something  else  —  I  only  hope  that  I'll 
be  able  to  approve  of  his  choice. 

Guido.     Why  do  you  hope  so?    Do  you  in- 

I02 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

tend  to  be  friendly  with  the  future  mistress  of  your 
husband? 

Agnes.     If  things  should  fall  out  so  — 

GuiDO.  They  will  not  fall  out  so.  I  wish  to 
make  clear  to  you  that  I  desire  to  keep  our  home 
—  as  soon  as  our  affairs  are  In  order,  and  that 
will  be  soon,  I  trust  —  respectable.  And  I  warn 
you  that  this  —  mind  you,  I  don't  say  uninterest- 
ing—  partly  dubious  crowd  of  artists  and  actor- 
folk  of  both  sexes  who  used  to  frequent  your 
house,  will  not  be  welcome  under  my  roof. 

Agnes.  As  regards  dubious  affairs,  you  ought 
to  — 

GuiDO.  That's  another  matter  entirely.  A 
real  passion  explains,  condones  everything.  And 
besides,  your  husband  deserves  his  fate. 

Agnes.     Oh  1 

GuiDO.  A  woman,  I  hold,  must  be  guarded 
jealously  like  a  priceless  gem.  One  should  never 
leave  a  voung  woman  alone,  wholly  alone  among 
a  crowd  of  young  people  In  summer  —  near  a 
lake  — r 

Agnes.  In  spite  of  his  doubts  he  trusted  me. 
It's  all  part  and  parcel  of  the  paradox  In  his  make- 
up. 

GuiDO.  A  man  doesn't  trust  a  woman  whom 
he  loves.  He  trembles  for  her.  He  fights  for 
her.  I  shall  never  trust  you.  Even  after  we've 
lived  together  for  years.  Even  If  we  should  have 
children  —  and  we  will  have  children.  I  will  al- 
ways be  concerned  about  you.  To  make  sure  of  a 
woman  one  must  keep  on  Insulting  her. 

Agnes.     But  he  never  resorted  to  that.     He 

103 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


was  jealous  oftener  than  you  think.  He  was  jeal- 
ous even  of  you. 

GuiDO.     Of  me — I     Well,  I  thought  — 

Agnes.  That  was  before  he  had  the  slightest 
grounds.     Even  then  —     How  mysterious  — 

GuiDO.     Life  is. 

Agnes.  We  had  scarcely  spoken  three  times 
together.  Naturally  he  said  nothing,  but  I  no- 
ticed that  it  was  so.  For  the  life  of  me,  I 
couldn't  make  it  out.  You  were  out  sailing  on 
the  lake  all  day  long  —  at  the  outset.  Only  in 
the  evening  did  you  venture  to  sit  beside  us  on 
the  hotel  terrace  and  chatter  all  manner  of  non- 
sense which,  to  tell  the  truth,  didn't  interest  me  the 
least  bit. 

GuiDO.     Nonsense  —  why  — 

Agnes.  I  only  mean  to  say  that  everything 
was  quite  harmless  in  those  early  days.  Admit 
that  you  didn't  trouble  at  all  about  me.  The  lit- 
tle Baroness  Fellah  meant  more  to  you  —  and  the 
Lord  knows  who  else  ?  But  he  saw  it  coming.  I 
observed  it  in  his  glances.  He  suspected  immedi- 
ately that  you  —  that  you  only  — 

GuiDO.  And  still  he  left  you  to  your  own  de- 
vices.    Saw  it  coming  and  went  away  on  a  trip. 

Agnes.  It's  a  way  with  him  when  he's  greatly 
absorbed  in  a  piece  of  work.  Everything  else  is 
put  aside. 

GuiDO.     And  he  fled  [pointedly']  to  solitude. 

Agnes  [ignoring  his  innuendo].  At  all  events 
he  stopped  caring  about  people  —  that  is,  about 
people  whom  he  loved. 

GuiDO.     Did  he  leave  you  alone  often? 

Agnes.     Sometimes.     But  that  was  not  the 

104 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

worst.  It  was  much  more  uncomfortable  when  he 
stayed  at  home  and  left  me  alone.  When  my 
voice  had  lost  its  caress,  when  I  became,  in  a 
measure,  paler,  more  shadowy  than  any  being  he 
ever  created ;  when  I  felt  myself  snuffed  out  —  for 
him  — 

GuiDO.  For  me  —  you  will  never  be  snuffed 
out  —  never,  Agnes. 

Agnes  [as  if  waking  from  a  trance'}.  Never, 
Guidol  You  will  never  leave  me  alone.  You 
will  never  repair  to  solitude  and  forget  me  for 
days,  weeks,  at  a  stretch,  as  he's  done.  It  isn't 
good  to  leave  us  women  alone.  You  are  right, 
Guido.  It's  quite  perilous  —  it's —  [For  sev- 
eral minutes  past  there  has  been  a  commotion  in 
the  waiting  room.  Passengers  come  up  the  steps. 
The  Guard  enters  from  the  right  and  goes  to  the 
platform  door.} 

GuiDO.  What's  the  matter?  [Glancing  at 
the  clock  above  the  bufet.}  There's  still  twelve 
minutes.     [Guard  opens  the  door.} 

Agne.     It  seems  as  if  — 

Guido  [quickly  to  the  Guard}.  The  Innsbruck 
train  ? 

Guard.     Yes,  sir. 

Guido.  I  thought  you  said  it  wouldn't  arrive 
before  ten  minutes  yet — ? 

Guard.     She's  made  up  a  bit  for  lost  time. 

Guido  [to  Agnes}.  You  are  pale.  Don't  you 
care  to  —  [Passengers  go  through  the  waiting 
room  to  the  platform  outside.} 

Agnes  [passionately  shaking  her  head}.  Let 
us  go  out,  don't  you  thmk  ? 

Guido.    On  the  platform? 

105 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Agnes.  Yes.  It's  better  than  waiting  out 
here.  I  wish  him  to  see  us  directly  from  the  car 
window. 

GuiDO.     I  don't  know. 

Agnes.  Come.  \_They  start  to  go  out  on  the 
platform.^ 

Guard.     Platform  tickets,  please. 

GuiDO.  Good  Lord!  {Searching  in  his 
purse."]     Here.     [Offers  the  Guard  money.] 

Guard.     Over  there,  at  the  ticket  machine. 

GuiDO.     But  the  train  will  be  in  by  that  time. 

Guard.     There's  lots  of  time  yet. 

GuiDO  [goes  to  the  ticket  machine,  deposits  a 
few  coins  and  yanks  the  lever  in  vain].  It  doesn't 
work. 

Guard  [going  over  to  the  machine,  tries  to 
manipulate  the  lever,  fails,  then  shakes  his  head]. 
Don't  work  sometimes. 

GuiDO.     But  we'll  — 

Guard.  Ah,  there  you  are.  It's  all  right 
now.  [Hands  two  tickets  to  Guido.  Back  to 
the  door  which  he  has  previously  closed  and  now 
reopens.]  Here  she  comes  now.  [Noise  of  an 
incoming  train.] 

Agnes.  Your  hand,  Guido.  [Hand  in  hand 
they  go  through  the  door  —  way  onto  the  plat' 
form.  As  they  pass  out  Felix  appears  on  the 
right,  mounting  the  steps.  He  spies  Agnes, 
makes  as  if  to  follow,  observes  almost  simultane- 
ously that  she  is  not  alone  and  is  just  in  time  to 
see  her  disappear  hand  in  hand  with  Guido  on 
the  platform.  He  remains  standing  a  moment. 
Then  makes  a  step  towards  them.  At  the  plat- 
form door  he  pauses  again.     Then  he  strides  to 

1 06 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

the  other  platform  door  and  seems  to  he  follow- 
ing with  his  eyes  the  pair  of  them  as  they  go  to 
meet  the  incoming  train.  He  steps  back,  passes 
his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  peers  through  the 
glass  door.  The  pair  vanish  out  of  sight.  The 
train  has  already  stopped  and  the  passengers  pour 
in  from  the  platform.  Most  of  them  pass 
through  the  waiting  room  to  the  steps  on  the 
right.  Several  take  seats  at  the  tables;  several 
step  up  to  the  buffet  and  order  refreshments.  Fe- 
lix advances  to  the  center  of  the  stage.  The 
stream  of  passengers  rushes  by  him.  He  feels  he 
must  get  out  of  their  path,  so  he  steps  back  again 
to  the  open  platform  door.  He  looks  for  Agnes 
and  Guido.  Gazing  intently  out,  he  watches 
them.  Then,  as  if  fearing  to  be  observed,  he 
drops  back.  On  his  face  there  is  depicted  com- 
plete understanding  of  the  situation.  Answering 
a  sudden  implse  to  escape,  he  hurries  to  the  steps 
on  the  right.  He  remains  standing  there  a  mo- 
ment, shakes  his  head  and  hastens  again  to  the 
closed  platform  door,  peering  out.  The  last  of 
the  passengers  are  leaving  the  platform.  Mov- 
ing away  from  the  door  Felix  comes  to  the  front 
in  an  attitude  of  suspense,  with  his  face  contorted 
into  a  smile.  Then,  growing  serious  again,  he 
seats  himself  at  a  table  on  the  right,  the  same,  in 
fact,  at  which  Agnes  and  Guido  had  sat  before. 
Mechanically  he  picks  up  a  newspaper  and  glances 
above  it  in  the  direction  of  the  platform  door. 
The  Guard  has  already  shut  the  door.  He  opens 
it  again.  First  there  enters  a  belated  woman  with 
a  multiplicity  of  hand  bags,  then  a  station  official, 
and  lastly  Guido  and  Agnes.     They  do  not  at  first 

107 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


discover  Felix,  who  is  intrenched  behind  his  news- 
paper. '\ 

GuiDO.     Amazing  — 

Agnes.     Is  there  another  train  today? 

GuiDO.  Let's  have  a  look  at  the  time-table. 
[They  go  to  the  time-table  on  the  wall  next  to  the 
steps.  Guido  studies  it  carefully.']  Nine  — 
twelve  —  no,  that's  not  from  Innsbruck.  If  we 
could  only  find  out  somehow.     Just  wait  — 

Felix  [putting  the  newspaper  aside,  rises  and 
strides  quickly  toward  Agnes  and  Guido,  who  are 
studying  the  time-table.  For  a  space  he  stands 
motionless  behind  her.  He  speaks  suddenly  in 
an  unsuspecting,  joyous  tone.]  Well,  here  you 
are,  Agnes.  [Agnes  turns  around,  likewise 
Guido,  but  they  utter  no  word.] 

Felix  [overlooking  the  awkwardness  of  the  sit- 
uation very  quickly].  You  see,  I  came  up  on  the 
earlier  train,  at  noon.  Unfortunately  I  couldn't 
telegraph  you  in  time.  It  was  a  sudden  whim  of 
mine.  I  awoke  somewhat  earlier  this  morning. 
My  things  were  all  packed.  So  I  said  to  myself : 
"  Suppose  you  take  the  first  train  and  loaf  about 
Salzburg  for  several  hours.'*  I'm  glad  to  see  you, 
Agnes  —  glad  to  see  you.  [Wrings  her  hand.] 
How  d'ye  do,  doctor?  What  are  you  doing 
here?  En  route  for  Vienna?  [Extends  his 
hand.]     Your  vacation's  over,  I  suppose. 

Guido  [hesitatingly  taking  the  proffered  hand]. 
No,  I'm  not  going  to  Vienna,  I  was  glad  to 
escort  your  —  your  wife  permitted  me  to  —  and, 
really  —  [Agnes  casts  an  anxious  glance  at  him, 
which  is  not  lost  on  Felix.] 

Felix  [quickly  interrupting].     Very  good  of 

io8 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

you,  doctor.  My  wife  loves  to  chat.  Very  kind 
of  you,  doctor,  to  keep  her  company.  When  one 
has  taken  the  trip  thirty  or  forty  times  the  beau- 
ties of  nature  grow  banal.  iSuddenly.l  But 
Agnes,  let  me  look  at  you.  We  haven't  seen 
each  other  for  such  an  age.  Six  weeks  I  I  don't 
recollect  our  ever  having  been  parted  so  long 
during  the  five  years  we've  been  married.  Isn't 
that  so  ? 

Agnes.     You're  looking  very  well,  Felix. 

Felix.  Am  I?  Well,  I  hope  so.  And  you, 
too.  Why,  you  seem  to  have  grown  a  little 
stouter.  And  you're  sunburnt,  quite  sunburnt. 
You  were  out  in  the  open  a  good  deal,  weren't  you  ? 
And  then  the  weather  was  simply  glorious.  But 
today  —  of  course.  It  was  very  nice  of  you  to 
come  to  meet  me. 

Agnes.     But  you  asked  me  to. 

Felix.  I  simply  wanted  to  let  you  know.  I 
didn't  reckon  on  it  for  a  moment.  Besides,  it's 
two  and  a  half  hours  from  Seewalchen  to  here. 
And  you  had  to  change,  too.  Take  it  any  way 
you  like,  it's  a  trip  —  even  with  the  doctor's  pleas- 
ant company. 

GuiDO.  As  regards  my  accompanying  your 
wife,  allow  me  — 

Agnes  [interrupting,  suddenly  to  Felix'].  You 
were  here,  then,  at  twelve  ?  What  have  you  done 
until  now? 

Felix.  I'll  tell  you  presently.  [Indicating 
the  table.]  Won't  you  join  me  —  I've  a  tremen- 
dous hankering  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  And  you? 
Or  have  you  already  had  some  ?  Waiter ! 
Waiter  1     What  was  that  you  asked  a  moment 

109 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


ago?  How  I  passed  the  time?  Well,  as  it  was 
dinner  time,  I  dined  in  town,  of  course  —  very 
well,  too  —  at  the  Nurnberg.  [Sits.]  Well, 
doctor,  won't  you  join  us?     [Affnes  sits.] 

GuiDO  [with  a  meaningful  glance  at  Agnes]. 
I  don't  really  know  whether —  You  see,  I 
have  — 

Felix  [quickly].  No  ceremony,  doctor. 
Please.  [To  waiter  who  approaches.]  Let  us 
have  some — [to  Agnes] — coffee,  eh?  And 
what'U  you  have,  doctor  ? 

GuiDO  [who  has  taken  a  seat  in  response  to  a 
wink  of  Agnes].     I  have  just  — 

Agnes  [quickly  to  waiter].  Three  melanges, 
please.     [Waiter  is  about  to  go.] 

Felix.  I'll  have  mine  a  bit  strong.  And,  by 
the  way,  have  you  still  got  that  coffee  cake  you  had 
six  weeks  ago  ?     It  was  delicious. 

Agnes.     You  remember  it  still? 

Felix.  You  liked  it,  too.  [To  the  waiter.] 
Well,  bring  us  some  coffee  cake  with  the  coffee. 
[Waiter  goes.] 

Felix.  Now  —  what  were  we  talking  about  ? 
Oh,  yes.  I  dined  at  the  Nurnberg  and  then  I 
loajFed  about  town  — 

Agnes.     In  the  rain? 

Felix.  Ah,  I  didn't  mind  it  the  least  bit. 
Coming  upon  the  sultriness  of  the  morning  it  was 
a  veritable  godsend.  Then,  you  see,  I  called  on 
Sebastian  Schwartz  for  half  an  hour. 

Agnes  [by  way  of  explanation  to  Guido]. 
That's  the  antique  dealer,  you  know. 

Felix.  You  aren't  interested  in  antiques,  I 
presume,  doctor? 

no 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

GuiDO.  I  don't  understand  enough  about 
them.     But  — 

Felix  [quickly  to  Agnes'],  He  has  lots  of 
beautiful  things.     Some  of  them  quite  expensive. 

Agnes.  And  I  suppose  you  untied  your  purse- 
strings  liberally  again. 

Felix.  Not  much.  I've  already  had  several 
things  sent  on  to  Seewalchen  to  the  villa.  A 
nampulla  such  as  we've  wanted  for  a  long  time. 

Agnes.     For  the  dining  room  ? 

Felix.  Yes,  of  course.  Certainly  you  can 
hang  it  in  the  dining  room  if  you  wish.  And  then 
I  bought  a  lovely  amulet.  Baroque.  Genuine. 
Aqua  marine  with  a  little  silver  chain  —  wait  until 
you  see  it.  I  have  it  here  in  my  purse.  But,  tell 
me,  when  did  you  arrive?    At  four,  I  take  it? 

Agnes.     No,  I  dined  in  town,  too. 

GuiDO.     We  had  dinner  here,  too. 

Agnes  [resuming'].  We  ate  at  the  station 
and  — 

Felix  [quickly].  And  loafed  about  town  until 
now.     Curious,  isn't  it,  that  we  didn't  meet  ? 

GuiDO.     We  took  a  drive. 

Agnes.  Considering  the  bad  weather  —  the 
doctor  was  very  kind —  [Waiter  brings  cofee, 
etc.  Felix,  moving  back  his  chair,  causes  the  table 
and  glasses  to  tremble.  Waiter  is  somewhat 
taken  aback.  Guido  seems  to  hesitate  a  moment, 
then,  with  nervous  haste,  he  does  likewise.  Felix 
stirs  his  coffee.  The  waiter  goes  off  with  the  news- 
papers.] 

GuiDO  [with  sudden  determination].  Mr. 
Staufner,  I  must  ask  — 

Felix  [quickly].     But  drink  your  coffee,  old 

III 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


man.  And  let  me  enjoy  mine  while  I  may. 
Then,  if  it  suits  you,  you  may  ask  my  indulgence 
to  whatever  you  please.  I  find  tiffin  the  nicest 
refreshment  of  the  day.  I  can  do  without  my 
dinner,  but  never  without  my  afternoon  coffee. 

GuiDO.  Mr.  Staufner,  you  asked  me  a  moment 
ago  whether  I  was  going  to  Vienna.     Well  — 

Felix  [quickly].  Excuse  my  having  asked.  I 
noticed  the  effect  on  you  was  painful.  I  don't 
want  to  have  appeared  indiscreet.  What  you 
have  decided  to  do  with  the  rest  of  your  vacation 
is  clearly  a  personal  matter.  Enjoy  life  as  long 
—  and  so  on.  Aren't  you  going  to  take  over  the 
management  of  the  Hollenstein  factory  when  your 
father  is  ready  to  retire  — 

GuiDO.  My  father  Is  quite  robust.  He  has 
no  intention  or  retiring  from  business.  [He  en- 
deavors to  exchange  glances  with  Agnes  who,  hozth 
ever,  avoids  his  look."] 

Felix.     How  old  is  he,  if  I  may  ask? 

GuiDO.     Sixty-two.     But  as  I  said  — 

Felix.  In  any  case,  the  main  burden  will  soon 
fall  to  your  shoulders.  So  enjoy  life  as  long  as 
you  may.     And  above  all  things  else,  travel. 

Agnes.  The  doctor  has  traveled  considerable. 
He's  already  been  to  America. 

GuiDO.     Yes,  I've  been  to  South  America. 

Felix.  Indeed.  To  South  America.  And 
do  you  know  Japan  at  all  ? 

GuiDO.     No,  I  don't  know  Japan. 

Felix.  Japan  has  lured  me  for  ever  so  long. 
Don't  you  feel  like  going  there  too,  Agnes? 

Agnes.     There  are  many  places  not  so  far. 

Felix.    What  of  that?    Do  you  expect  to 

112 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

travel  round  the  world  inch  by  inch?  It  can't  be 
done.  What  kind  of  a  bat  are  you  wearing, 
Agnes  ? 

Agnes.     You  know  it. 

Felix.     The  red  band  is  kind  of  new  to  me. 

Agnes.     Yes,  it  is  new. 

Felix.  Quite  a  summer  hue.  It  glows  and 
sparkles.  [He  repeats  the  phrase,  but  almost  in 
an  uncontrollable  threatening  tone  of  voice.'\  It 
glows  and  sparkles. 

[Agnes  gazes  at  him  in  terror  and  shoots  a  sud' 
den  glance  at  Guido.  Guido  involuntarily 
assumes  a  dignified  posture.^ 

Felix  [glancing  up,  in  a  gentler  tonel.  You 
are  not  interested  in  women's  hats,  I  presume, 
doctor  ? 

Guido  [as  if  perceiving  an  opportunity  to  fasten 
his  fangs'].  Not  generally.  But  I  am  interested 
in  this  one,  Mr.  Staufner.     And  not  only  — 

[Agnes  looks  at  him  frightened.] 

Felix.  Not  only  in  the  hat,  but  also,  the 
wearer.  That  goes  without  saying.  I  am  too, 
doctor.  Naturally  the  hat  would  be  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  both  of  us  if,  say,  it  hung  over  there 
on  that  hook. 

Guard  [entering  and  calling  out].  Passenger 
train  to  Schwannemarkt,  Bocklabruck,  Atnang, 
Linz,  Vienna. 

Guido  [pushing  back  his  chair  as  if  to  rise], 
Mr.  Staufner  — 

Felix.  Oh,  yes.  That's  your  train.  If  you 
intend  going  back  to  Seewalchen  you'll  have  to 
make  a  connection.  [To  Agnes,  who  looks  at  him 
quite  confused,]     You  thought  it  was  ours,  too? 

113 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


No,  it  is  not  ours,  Agnes.  I  understand  fully, 
doctor  —  this  attraction  to  the  field  of  your  tri- 
umph. Yes,  your  triumph — \_laughing  loudly'\. 
My  cordial  wishes  are  perhaps  a  little  tardy  at 
this  moment. 

GuiDO  Itaken  ahack].  How — ?  [Agnes 
gazes  at  Felix,  not  understanding.!^ 

Felix.  You  —  \_pause']  —  won  —  at  the  Re- 
gatta, didn't  you  ? 

GuiDO  [^involuntarily  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief^ . 
Oh,  thank  you.     It  was  only  the  second  prize. 

Agnes  [likewise  relieved}.  How  do  you  come 
to  know  about  it  ? 

Felix.     Why,  it's  in  the  newspaper. 

Agnes.  You  read  the  sporting  page  now- 
adays?    Since  when? 

Felix.  Not  all  of  it.  But  news  about  See- 
walchen,  for  obvious  reasons,  interested  me. 
Moreover,  it  was  on  the  train,  where  one  reads 
everything,  even  one's  railway  ticket.  [To 
Guido.'i  Have  you  been  interested  in  yachting 
very  long? 

GuiDO.  Quite  a  number  of  years.  On  Oster- 
see  mostly  in  the  past. 

Felix.  On  Binnensee,  I  imagine,  it's  more  dif- 
ficult. 

GuiDO.     Not  necessarily. 

Felix.  Unfortunately,  I  know  nothing  about 
it. 

GuiDO.  I  suppose  you  haven't  taken  up  sport, 
Mr.  Staufner  ? 

Felix.     Oh,  yes  —  yes.     Mostly  of  a  tourist 
laracter.     I  climb  a  good  deal.     In  Stubai  I  ne- 
rotlated  several  trails. 

114 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

Agnes.    Alone? 

Felix.  The  big  ones,  yes.  On  the  little  ones 
I  had  a  party  along.  Two  ladies  —  mother  and 
daughter.  The  young  lady  kept  up  very  nicely 
on  foot. 

Agnes.     Miss  Bianca  Walter  — ? 

Felix.     How  do  you — ?    Why,  yes. 

Agnes.  I  hazard  the  guess  she's  blond. 
That's  your  favorite  color. 

Felix.  Of  course,  she's  blond.  Would  you 
care  to  know  more  about  her?  She's  a  young 
actress  just  beginning  her  career.  She  played 
something  for  me  once  —  The  Jungfrau  von 
Orleans. 

Agnes.     Very  nice. 

Felix.  It  was,  indeed.  By  the  bye,  I  should 
have  her  picture  somewhere  about  me. 

Agnes.  Her  picture?  You  have  her  picture 
about  you — ? 

Felix.  Yes.  [_He  takes  it  out  of  his  breast 
pocketJ]  She  gave  it  to  me  before  I  left.  The 
first  chance  I  get  I'd  like  to  show  it  to  a  manager. 
She  wants  ever  so  much  to  get  a  position  in 
Vienna.  She  imagines  it  only  needs  a  word  from 
me.  These  women  certainly  are  naive!  The 
mother  wasn't  bad-looking,  either. 

Agnes.     Isabella. 

Felix.  Isabella  ?  Why,  yes,  of  course.  Isa- 
bella was  the  mother's  name. 

Agnes.    And  the  daughter's  Bianca. 

Felix.  Isabella  was  the  mother's  name  and 
the  daughter's  Bianca.  Sounds  like  a  ballad  al- 
most.    [To  Guido.']     Don't  you  think  so? 

GuiDO  \tcily'] .    I'm  no  judge. 

I  IS. 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Agnes.  But  I  thought  you  had  no  intention  of 
making  any  acquaintances  there,  and  that  you  were 
going  to  devote  yourself  exclusively  to  your  work? 

Felix.  Oh,  appearances  to  the  contrary,  I  was 
quite  assiduous.  You  will  be  quite  satisfied  with 
me,  I  think. 

Agnes  [with  an  effort].     Have  you  finished? 

Felix.     Finished  ?     Not  quite. 

Agnes.  Under  the  circumstances  little  else 
was  to  be  expected. 

Felix.  How  malevolent  you  can  be,  Agnes! 
No  reason  for  it  —  at  all.  When  luck's  on  my 
side,  as  you  know,  I  can  get  through  in  three  or 
four  days.     Only  I  need  your  advice. 

Agnes  [joyful  in  spite  of  herself].  My  — 
advice? 

Felix.  Yes,  without  equivocation.  First,  I'd 
like  to  talk  it  over  with  you.  I'll  also  read  you  as 
much  as  I  have.  So  let's  not  take  the  train  back 
to  Seewalchen  for  the  present.  Until  I  have 
cleared  up  everything  I  don't  care  to  go  back. 
And  here  in  Salzburg,  I  know  from  previous  ex- 
perience I  can  work  extraordinarily  well.  That's 
why  we'll  stay  here  for  a  few  days. 

Agnes.  We're  going  to  stay  here?  That's 
rather  new  to  me. 

Felix.  To  me,  also.  I  simply  mean  that  the 
idea  struck  me  on  the  train.  You're  with  me  in 
this,  aren'tyou ?  We've  only  got  to  telegraph  to 
good  old  Therese,  asking  her  to  send  you  what- 
ever you  need  —  absolute  necessities.  Of  course, 
some  superfluous  things,  too.  And  whatever  for 
the  present  you're  urgently  in  want  of  we  can  pur- 
chase today.     Or  have  you,  by  chance,  in  response 

1x6 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

to  some  secret  presentiment,  brought  your  little 
crocodile  purse  with  you? 

GuiDO  [as  if  sensing  the  underlying  meaning. 
Externally  unruffled^  but  without  malice^.  I  put 
the  crocodile  purse  in  my  suitcase,  thinking  it  safer 
there. 

Felix.  Indeed?  Capital  1  Then  everything 
is  in  ship-shape.  And  you're  glad  to  stay  on, 
aren't  you,  Agnes?  The  three  days,  I  promise 
you,  will  pass  quickly.  All  difficulties  will  be  sur- 
mounted—  and  before  we  return  to  our  little 
country  house  I  shall  put  the  finishing  touch  to  — 
\^he  hesitates"] — "  The  Festival  of  Bacchus." 

Agnes  [^taken  by  surprise}.  "  The  Festival  of 
Bacchus  "? 

Felix.  Yes;  why  these  wide  eyes  of  wonder- 
ment? 

Agnes.  You're  writing  "  The  Festival  of 
Bacchus  "  ? 

Felix.     Yes. 

Agnes.  But  you  started  out  with  quite  a  dif- 
ferent purpose. 

Felix.  Quite  right.  But,  soon  after,  on  the 
way  to  Stubaital,  it  flashed  upon  me,  before  any- 
thing else,  I  must  do  "  The  Festival  of  Bacchus." 
There  are  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for 
this  change.  It  was  conditioned  by  mysterious 
laws. 

GuiDO.     Yes,  life  is  very  mysterious. 

Felix.  Life  —  no.  Not  more  than  ordina- 
rily so.  But  art  is.  Yes,  art  is  most —  A 
thing  of  this  sort  is  leavened  within.  It  matures 
deep  in  the  recesses  of  self.  [^Indicating  his  fore- 
head.'}    Here  one  knows  nothing  about  it.     So 

"7 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


it  is.  [Breaking  off  in  another  tone."]  Two  acts, 
as  I  said,  are  finished.  Only  in  the  third  act  I 
find  I'm  up  against  it,  and  no  thoroughfare. 
Well,  you'll  hear  it  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  some- 
thing suggestive  will  occur  to  you. 

Agnes.  If  you  think  so —  [The  waiter  has 
appeared.^ 

Felix  [noticing  him].     Oh,  yes.     Well — ? 

GuiDO.     Mine  was  a  melange  — 

Felix.  What  a  notion,  doctor?  [The  wait- 
er.'] Three  melanges  and  three  portions  of  cof- 
fee cake. 

GuiDO.     Four  —  I  had  two. 

Felix  [laughing].     Ah,  yes;  four  then. 

Waiter.     Five. 

Felix.     Five? 

Agnes.     You  crumbled  one. 

Felix.  Oh,  did  I?  Really?  Well,  then, 
five. 

Waiter.     Two  crowns,  40  pfennig. 

Yeiax  [counting].     Very  well. 

Waiter  [discreetly  to  Guido].  And  then 
there  were  two  lemon  sodas. 

Guido.     Ah,  yes.     [Is  about  to  pay.] 

Felix  [noticing  Guidons  attempt].  What  is 
that?  Ah,  yes?  [Gaily.]  Please,  please.  [Is 
about  to  pay.]  ^ 

GuLDO.     I  insist  — 

Felix.  Please  let  me.  Two  sodas.  Here 
you  are.  [Pays.  Waiter  goes.  Felix  extracts  a 
cigarette  case  from  his  pocket  and  offers  Guido  a 
cigarette.] 

Guido  [falteringly  helping  himself  to  a  ciga- 
rette].   Thanks. 

118 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

IFelix  ofers  him  a  light  and  then  proceeds  to 
light  his  own."] 

GuiDO.  And  now,  if  youll  excuse  me,  I  must 
be  going. 

Felix.  Good  day,  doctor,  and  a  pleasant  jour- 
ney to  you  —  whatever  route  you  decide  to  take. 

GuiDO.  Thanks.  Good  bye,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Staufner.  [Not  yet  does  he  dare  to  extend  his 
hand.J  I  trust  soon — {^overjoyed  at  the  sudden 
ideal — perhaps  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  again  at  the  premiere  of  your  husband's 
new  play  — 

Agnes.     I  shall  be  pleased  — 

Felix.  You're  in  no  way  bound  to  attend, 
doctor. 

GuiDO.  No  trouble  at  all.  You  see,  I've  never 
missed  one  of  your  first  nights  yet.  So,  naturally, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  be  present  at  the  opening  of 
"  The  Festival  of  Bax  — " 

Felix.     Bacchus,  doctor. 

GuiDO.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Felix.  It's  not  a  mythological  play,  as  ap- 
pears from  the  title,  neither  is  it  in  verse,  if  such 
things  scare  you  away. 

GuiDO.     Not  at  all. 

Felix.  The  title  is  only  used  metaphorically, 
of  course.  If  I  attempted  to  put  on  a  real  Festival 
of  Bacchus,  I'd  have  no  end  of  trouble  with  the 
censor,  as  you  can  imagine. 

GuiDO.  Fm  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  don't 
know  what  a  Festival  of  Bacchus  is. 

Felix.  Really?  The  Festival  of  Bacchus 
was  a  quaint  custom  of  the  ancient  Greeks  —  a 
religious  custom,  you  might  say. 

119 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


GuiDO.     A  —  religious  custom? 

Felix  [with  marginal  lilt  and  brevity'}.  Yes. 
A  night  was  set  aside  once  a  year  at  the  season  of 
the  vintage,  if  I  err  not,  when  men  and  women 
were  granted  unlimited  freedom  after  a  fashion  — 

GuiDO.     Unlimited  freedom  — 

Felix  [very  cool,  merely  informative}.  After 
a  fashion.  On  this  night  of  nights  all  family 
ties,  all  prescriptive  laws  were  dissolved.  Men, 
women,  and  girls  departed  from  their  homes  at 
sundown  —  homes  whose  peace  they  had  sur- 
rounded and  protected  —  and  repaired  to  a  sacred 
grove  (there  were  many  such  groves  in  the  land) 
to  celebrate  under  the  sheltering  wing  of  night  the 
divine  festival  — 

GuiDO.     The  divine  festival  — 

Felix.     The  divine  festival. 

GuiDO.     Under  the  wing  of  night. 

Felix.     Yes. 

GuiDO.     And  supposing  the  moon  shone? 

Felix.  That  did  not  matter.  At  daybreak  — 
the  festival  was  over,  and  every  participant  was 
pledged  to  forget  with  whom  he  celebrated  his 
share  of  the  divine  festival.  Pledged  in  all  honor. 
That  was  a  part  of  the  religious  custom  —  just  as 
the  celebration  itself.  To  recognize  one  another 
afterward  would  have  been  considered  in  bad  taste, 
as  being,  indeed,  frivolous.  And,  as  the  saying 
runs,  the  votaries  of  the  gods,  somewhat  tired  and 
yet  refreshed,  in  a  measure  even  purified,  wended 
their  way  home. 

GuiDO.  And  at  home  one  had  an  exciting 
theme  for  discussion  ready  to  hand  —  until  the 
next  festival. 

1 20 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

Felix.  At  home  nothing  was  allowed  to  be 
said  about  the  festival.  There'd  be  no  sense  in 
that.  There  was  as  little  individual  responsibility 
for  the  experiences  of  that  night  —  as  there  is  for 
dreams. 

GuiDO.  But  didn't  it  sometimes  happen  that  a 
couple  who  had  found  themselves  together  in  a 
sacred  grove,  had  no  desire  to  escape  from  one 
another's  sight  so  soon  —  and  neither  of  them 
showed  up  at  home  ? 

Felix.  That  was  impossible.  The  penalty 
for  that  was  death. 

Agnes.     Death — ? 

Felix.  Yes,  death.  They  had  to  part  when 
the  sun  rose.  The  ritual  in  this  respect  was  very 
strict. 

GuiDO.     You  say  the  penalty  was  death — ? 

Felix.  To  be  exact,  there  was  an  extenuating 
circumstance. 

GuiDO.     Ah  I 

Felix  [with  emphasis'].  When  two  people 
who  had  found  themselves  together  under  the 
wing  of  night  yearned  for  one  another  still  on 
the  foUowmg  night  —  this  happened  less  fre- 
quently than  one  imagines  —  no  one  was  allowed, 
neither  husband  nor  wife  nor  father  nor  mother, 
to  stand  in  their  way.  And  these  two  met  again 
on  the  same  spot  where  they  had  parted  in  the 
morning.  But  from  the  second  night  —  and  here 
we  must  really  marvel  at  the  wisdom  of  the  priests 
—  from  this  second  night,  which  was  no  longer 
a  festival  to  the  god  there  was  no  asylum.  Their 
former  home  was  closed  to  them  and  they  were 
for  the  remainder  of  their  days  dependent  on  one 

121 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


another.  That  is  why  so  very  few  cared  to  leave 
their  homes  on  the  second  nignt.     [Pause. '\ 

GuiDO.  You've  looked  up  the  mythology  of 
It  pretty  thoroughly  for  your  comedy,  Mr.  Stauf- 
ner. 

Felix.  It  wasn't  necessary.  If  you  were  to 
investigate  you  would  discover  that  my  version 
doesn't  correspond  exactly.  For,  as  I  said,  the 
Festival  of  Bacchus  is  but  a  symbol  suitable  to  my 
purpose.  My  play  is  set  in  the  present,  and  the 
present  lacks  several  things  which  makes  the  re- 
vival of  such  a  beautiful,  simple  and  pure  celebra- 
tion as  the  ancient  Festival  of  Bacchus,  impossible. 
People  have  grown  too  irreligious.  Instead  of 
experiencing  the  natural  naturally,  they  befog 
things  with  their  pedantic  psychology.  Now- 
adays Festivals  of  Bacchus  are  no  longer  possible 
because  our  love-life  is  murky,  yes,  poisoned  by 
lies  and  self-deception,  by  jealousy  and  fear,  by 
insolence  and  remorse.  Only  occasionally  —  and 
this  but  in  pious  souls  —  there  is  kindled  a  faint 
or  still  more  brilliant  reflection  of  the  marvelous 
magic  which  once  pervaded  the  Festival  of 
Bacchus.  And  this  magic  is  perhaps  of  a  higher 
order  than  the  other.  But  who  or  us  can  glory 
in  his  own  piety?     Who  of  us —  ? 

Guard  [entering'}.  Express  to  Freilassing, 
Rosenheim,  Munich,  Paris  — 

Felix  [in  an  altered  tone  of  voice"].  Isn't 
that  your  train,  doctor? 

GviDO  [surprised].     My  train — ? 

Agnes.  For  Paris.  Of  course  it's  your  train, 
doctor. 

GuiDO.     Well  let  It  be —    And  now  I  must 

122 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  BACCHUS 

sec  about  my  baggage.  Dear  Mrs.  Staufner  — 
[Jffnes  gives  him  her  hand.  Guido  hesitates  a 
moment,  then  kisses  it.  He  bows  to  Felix.  Felix 
extends  his  hand.  Guido  takes  it  hurriedly,  then 
goes  down  the  steps.  Pause.  Commotion. 
Passengers  pass  out  to  the  platform  with  porters, 
etc.] 

Agnes  [looking  at  him,  after  a  long  pause]. 
And  what  kind  of  a  reflection  is  that? 

[Felix  looks  at  her  as  if  he  did  not  quite  follow 
her  meaning.'} 

Agnes.  The  reflection  in  pious  souls  which 
you  just  mentioned,  which  to  you  signifies  a  loftier 
magic  than  the  marvelous  festival  itself  —  this 
festival  which  according  to  you  is  no  longer  cele- 
brated nowadays  ? 

Felix  [almost  crudely].  This  magic  is  called 
—  forgetting.  But  we  don't  believe  in  that,  you 
and  I. 

Agnes.  You  may  be  right.  There  may,  how- 
ever, be  another  which  is  easier  to  believe  in. 
[Felix  gives  her  a  questioning  look.] 

Agnes.  Understanding.  [She  has  the  picture 
in  her  hand  and  crushes  it.     Felix  laughs  curtly.] 

Guido  [entering  from  the  right  with  two  hand- 
hags.  He  steps  up  to  the  table].  Pardon  me, 
since  it  was  most  convenient  to  check  both  bags 
on  one  ticket  —  I  — 

Agnes  [anxiously].  Thank  you,  very  much. 
Please  put  it  here. 

Guido.  Don't  mention  it.  [He  places  Agnes* 
handbag  on  the  chair  which  he  previously  occu- 
pied.] 

Felix  [rising  suddenly].     Dr.  Wernig  — 

123 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


GuiDO  {^comprehending,  with  great  dignity'^. 
If  it  is  your  pleasure,  Mr.  Staufner,  I  can  likewise 
put  off  my  departure. 

Agnes  [quickly ,  with  determination'^.  You 
will  depart  on  this  train,  Guido. 

[Felix  looks  at  her.  Guido  stands  irresolute. 
Pause. '\ 

Felix.  You  may  gol  [Guido  bows  and  goes 
out  on  the  platform.] 

Felix  [sits.  His  face  is  contorted.  Then  he 
rises  again,  as  if  to  follow  Guido.  Agnes  re- 
strains  him  by  grasping  his  arm.  Felix  reseats 
himself.  Agnes  tears  Bianca's  picture  into  small 
bits.] 

Felix  [bitterly].     If  this  were  all  I 

Agnes  [with  a  ghost  of  a  smile].  We  must  be 
pious,  both  of  us. 

Felix  [in  a  sudden  hollow  tone  of  voice],  I 
hate  you  I 

Agnes.  And  I  hate  you  a  thousand  times  more 
bitterly  —  [with  a  new  expression  of  tenderness] 
—  my  lover  1 

[Curtain.] 


124 


OTHER  PLAYS 


^  LITERATURE 

A  Play  in  One  Act 

PERSONS 

Margaret. 

Clement. 

Gilbert. 

[Scene:  Moderately  well,  but  quite  inex- 
pensively furnished  apartments  occupied  by 
Margaret.  A  small  fireplace,  a  table,  a  small 
escritoire,  a  settee,  a  wardrobe  cabinet,  two 
windows  in  the  back,  entrances  left  and  right. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  Clement,  dressed  in  a 
modish,  tarnished-gray  sack  suit,  is  discovered 
reclining  in  a  fauteuil  near  the  fireplace.  He 
is  smoking  a  cigarette  and  perusing  a  news- 
paper. Margaret  is  standing  at  the  window. 
She  walks  hack  and  forth,  finally  goes  up  di- 
rectly behind  Clement,  and  playfully  musses  his 
hair.  Evidently  she  has  something  trouble- 
some on  her  mind."] 

Clem.  [Reading,  seizes  her  hand  and  kisses 
it."]  Horner's  certain  about  his  pick  and  doubly 
certain  about  mine ;  Waterloo  five  to  one ;  Barom- 
eter twenty-one  to  one;  Busserl  seven  to  one;  At- 
tilla  sixteen  to  one. 

Marg.     Sixteen  to  one! 

127 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 

Clem.     Lord  Byron  one  and  one-half  to  one 

—  that's  us,  my  dear. 
Marg.     I  know. 

Clem.  Besides,  it's  sixteen  weeks  yet  to  the 
Handicap. 

Marg.  Evidently  he  looks  upon  it  as  a  clean 
"  runaway." 

Clem.  Not  quite  —  but  where  did  you  pick 
up  your  turf-lingo,  Brava  ? 

Marg.  Oh,  I  used  this  kind  of  talk  before  I 
knew  you.  Is  it  settled  that  you  are  to  ride  Lord 
Byron  yourself? 

Clem.  How  absurd  to  ask!  You  forget,  it's 
the  Damenpreis  Handicap.  Whom  else  could  I 
get  to  ride  him?  And  if  Horner  thought  for  a 
moment  that  I  wasn't  going  to  ride  him,  he'd  never 
put  up  one  and  a  half  to  one.  You  may  stake  all 
you've  got  on  that. 

Marg.  I'm  well  aware  of  that.  You  are  so 
'  handsome  when  you  mount  a  horse  —  honest  and 
< ,  -  truly,  too  sweet  for  anything  I  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  day  in  Munich,  when  I  first  made  your 
acquaintance  — 

Clem.  Please  do  riot  remind  me  of  it.  I  had 
rotten  luck  that  day.  But  you  can  believe  me, 
Windy  would  never  have  won  if  it  weren't  for  the 
ten  lengths  he  gained  at  the  start.     But  this  time 

—  never!     You  know,  of  course,  it  is  decided; 
we  leave  town  the  same  day. 

Marg.     Same  evening,  you  mean. 
Clem.     If  you  will  —  but  why  ? 
Marg.     Because  it's  been  arranged  we're  to  be 
married  in  the  morning,  hasn't  it? 
Clem.     Quite  so. 

128 


LITERATURE 


Marg.  I  am  so  happy.  [Embraces  him.'\ 
Now,  where  shall  we  spend  our  honeymoon? 

Clem.  I  take  it  we're  agreed.  Aren't  we? 
On  the  estate. 

Marg.  Oh,  of  course,  later.  Aren't  we  go- 
ing to  take  in  the  Riviera,  as  a  preliminary  tidbit? 

Clem.  As  for  that,  it  all  depends  on  the 
Handicap.     If  we  win  — 

Marg.     Surest  thing  I 

Clem.  And  besides,  in  April  the  Riviera's 
not  at  all  good  ton. 

Marg.     Is  that  your  reason? 

Clem.  Of  course  it  is,  my  love.  In  your 
former  way  of  life,  there  were  so  few  opportuni- 
ties for  your  getting  a  clear  idea  of  fashion  — 
Pardon  me,  but  whatever  there  was,  you  must 
admit,  really  had  its  origin  in  the  comic  journals. 

Marg.     Clem,  please! 

Clem.  Well,  well.  We'll  see.  [Continues 
readingS\     Badegast  fifteen  to  one  — 

Marg.  Badegast?  There  isn't  a  ghost  of  a 
show  for  him  I 

Clem.     Where  did  you  get  that  information? 

Marg.     Szigrati  himself  gave  me  a  tip. 

Clem.     Where  —  and  when  ? 

Marg.     Oh,  this  morning  in  the  Fredenau,  --; 

while  you  were  talking  with  Milner.    ^  ^ 

Clem.  Now,  look  here ;  Szigrati  isn't  fit  com- 
pany for  you. 

Marg.     Jealous? 

Clem.  Not  at  all.  Moreover,  let  it  be  under- 
stood that  from  now  on  I  shall  introduce  you 
everywhere  as  my  fiancee.  [Margaret  kisses 
him.1 

129 


^  / 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Clem.     Now,  what  did  Szigrati  say? 

Marg.  That  he's  not  going  to  enter  Badegast 
in  the  Handicap  at  all. 

Clem.  Well,  don't  you  believe  everything 
Szigrati  is  likely  to  say.  He's  circulating  the  ru- 
mor that  Badegast  will  not  be  entered  so  that  the 
odds  may  be  bigger. 

Marg.  Nonsense  I  That's  too  much  like  an 
investment. 

Clem.  So  you  don't  believe  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  investment  in  this  game?  For  a  great 
many  it's  all  a  commercial  enterprise.  Do  you 
think  that  a  fellow  of  Szigrati's  ilk  cares  a  fig  for 
sport?  He  might  just  as  well  speculate  on  the 
market,  and  wouldn't  realize  the  difference.  Any- 
way, as  far  as  Badegast  is  concerned,  one  hundred 
to  one  wouldn't  be  too  much  to  put  up  against 
him. 

Marg.  Really?  I  found  him  in  first-rate  fet- 
tle this  morning. 

Clem.     Then  you  saw  Badegast,  too? 

Marg.  Certainly.  Didn't  Butters  put  him 
through  his  paces,  right  behind  Busserl? 

Clem.     But  Butters  isn't  riding  for  Szigrati., 
He  was  only  a  stableboy.     Badegast  can  be  in  as 
fine  fettle  as  he  chooses  —  it's  all  the  same  to  me. 
He's  nothing  but  a  blind.     Some  day,  Margaret, 
/  with  the  aid  of  your  exceptional  talent,  you  will 

be  able  to  distinguish  the  veritable  somebodies 
from  the  shams.     Really,  it's  remarkable  with 
j:  ''i  what  proficiency  you  have,  so  to  speak,  insinuated 

yourself  into  all  these  things.     You  go  beyond  my 
expectations. 

130 


y 


LITERATURE 


Marg.  [chagrined].  Pray,  why  do  I  go  be- 
yond your  expectations?  All  this,  as  you  know, 
is  not  so  new  to  me.  At  our  house  we  entertained 
very  good  people  —  Count  Libowski  and  people 
of  that  sort  —  and  at  my  husband's  — 

Clem.  Quite  so.  No  question  about  that. 
As  a  matter  of  principle,  you  realize,  I've  no 
grudge  against  the  cotton  industry. 

Marg.  Even  if  my  husband  happened  to  be 
the  owner  of  a  cotton  mill,  that  didn't  have  to  ef- 
fect my  personal  outlook  on  life,  did  it?  I  al- 
ways sought  culture  in  my  own  way.  Now,  don't 
let's  talk  of  that  period  of  my  life.  It's  dead  and 
buried,  thank  heaven ! 

Clem.  Yes.  But  there's  another  period 
which  lies  nearer. 

Marg.     I  know.     But  why  mention  it? 

Clem.  Well,  I  simply  mean  that  you  couldn't 
possibly  have  heard  much  about  sportsmanship 
from  your  friends  in  Munich  —  at  least,  as  far  as 
I  am  able  to  judge. 

Marg.  I  do  hope  you  will  stop  tormenting  me 
about  those  friends  in  whose  company  you  first 
made  my  acquaintance. 

Clem.  Tormenting  you?  Nonsense!  Only 
it's  incomprehensible  to  me  how  you  ever  got 
amongst  those  people. 

Marg.  You  speak  of  them  as  if  they  were  a 
gang  of  criminals. 

Clem.  Dearest,  I'd  stake  my  honor  on  it, 
some  of  them  looked  the  very  picture  of  pickpock- 
ets. Tell  me,  how  did  you  manage  to  do  it?  I 
can't   understand   how   you,   with   your   refined 

131 


*»• 


^^l  com:£dies  of  words 


i' 


taste  —  let  alono  your  purity  and  the  scent  you 
used  —  could     have     tolerated     their     society. 
How  could  you  have  sat  at  the  same  table  with  ' 
them? 

Marg.  [laughing'].     Didn't  you  do  the  same? 

Clem.  Next  to  them  —  not  with  them.  And 
for  your  sake  —  merely  for  your  sake,  as  you 
know.  To  do  them  justice,  however,  I  will  ad- 
mit that  many  bettered  upon  closer  acquaint- 
ance. There  were  some  interesting  people  among 
them.  You  mustn't  for  a  moment  believe,  dear- 
est, that  I  hold  myself  superior  to  those  who  hap- 
pen to  be  shabbily  dressed.  That's  nothing 
against  them.  But  there  was  something  in  their 
conduct,  in  their  manners,  which  was  positively 
revolting. 

Marg.     It  wasn't  quite  so  bad. 

Clem.  Don't  take  offense,  dear.  I  said  there 
were  some  interesting  people  among  them.  But 
that  a  lady  should  feel  at  ease  in  their  company, 
for  any  length  of  time,  I  cannot  and  do  not  pretend 
to  understand. 

Marg.  You  forget,  dear  Clem,  that  in  a  sense 
I'm  one  of  them  —  or  was  at  one  time. 

Clem.     Now,  please  1     For  my  sake  I 

Marg.     They  were  artists. 

Clem.  Thank  goodness,  we've  returned  to  the 
old  theme. 

Marg.  Yes,  because  it  hurts  me  to  think  you 
always  lose  sight  of  that  fact. 

Clem.  Lose  sight  of  that  fact  I  Nonsense  I 
You  know  what  pained  me  in  your  writings  — 
things  entirely  personal. 

Marg.     Let   me   tell   you,    Clem,   there   are 

132 


LITERATURE 


women  who,  in  my  situation,  would  have  done 
worse  than  write  poetry. 

Clem.  But  what  sort  of  poetry  I  What  sort 
of  poetry  I  \_Take$  a  slender  volume  from  the 
mantel-shelf.']  That's  what  repels  me.  I  assure 
you,  every  time  I  see  this  book  lying  here;  every 
time  I  think  of  it,  I  blush  with  shame  that  it  was 
you  who  wrote  it. 

Marg.  That's  why  you  fail  to  understand  — 
Now,  don't  take  offense.  If  you  did  understand, 
you'd  be  quite  perfect,  and  that,  obviously,  is  im- 
possible. Why  does  it  repel  you?  You  know  I 
didn't  live  through  all  the  experiences  I  write 
about. 

Clem.     I  hope  not. 

Marg.     The  poems  are  only  visions. 

Clem.  That's  just  it.  That's  what  makes 
me  ask:  How  can  a  lady  indulge  in  visions  of 
that  character?  [Reads.]  "  Abandoned  on  thy 
breast  and  suckled  by  thy  lips  "  [shaking  his 
head] .  How  can  a  lady  write  such  stuff  —  how 
can  a  lady  have  such  stuff  printed?  That's  what 
I  simply  cannot  make  out.  Everybody  who  reads 
will  inevitably  conjure  up  the  person  or  the  author- 
ess, and  the  particular  breast  mentioned,  and  the 
particular  abandonment  hinted  at. 

Marg.  But,  I'm  telling  you,  no  such  breast 
ever  existed. 

Clem.  I  can't  bring  myself  to  imagine  that  it 
did.  That's  lucky  for  both  of  us,  Margaret.  But 
where  did  these  visions  originate  ?  These  flowing 
passion-poems  could  not  have  been  inspired  by 
your  first  husband.  Besides,  he  could  never  ap- 
preciate you,  as  you  yourself  always  say. 

133 


t^ 


(pO 


,jS,,^  K  .r^  jjsi'.i-..*  .^*fe4i}' .„., 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Marg.  Certainly  not.  That's  why  I  brought 
suit  for  divorce.  You  know  the  story.  I  just 
couldn't  bear  living  with  a  man  who  had  no  other 
interest  in  life  than  eating  and  drinking  and  cotton. 

Clem.     I  dare  say.     But  that  was  three  years 
^Q  ago.     These  poems  were  written  later. 

-' Marg.     Quite  so.     But  consider  the  position 

i  i  in  which  I  found  myself  — 

Clem.  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  didn't  have 
to  endure  any  privation  ?  In  this  respect  you  must 
admit  your  husband  acted  very  decently  toward 
you.  You  were  not  under  the  necessity  of  earn- 
ing your  own  living.  And  suppose  the  publishers 
did  pay  you  one  hundred  gulden  for  a  poem  — 
surely,  they  don't  pay  more  than  that  —  still,  you 
were  not  bound  to  write  a  book  of  this  sort. 

Marg.  I  did  not  refer  to  position  in  a  ma- 
terial sense.  It  was  the  state  or  my  soul.  Have 
you  a  notion  how  —  when  you  came  to  know  me 
—  things  were  considerably  improved.  I  had  in 
many  ways  found  myself  again.  But  in  the  be- 
ginning! I  was  so  friendless,  so  crushed!  I 
tried  my  hand  at  everything;  I  painted,  I  gave 
English  lessons  in  the  pension  where  I  lived.  Just 
think  of  it !     A  divorcee,  having  nobody  — 

Clem.     Why  didn't  you  stay  in  Vienna? 

Marg.  Because  I  couldn't  get  along  with  my 
family.  No  one  appreciated  me.  Oh,  what  peo- 
ple !  Did  any  one  of  them  realize  that  a  woman 
of  my  type  asks  more  of  life  than  a  husband, 
pretty  dresses  and  social  position?  My  God! 
If  I  had  had  a  child,  probably  everything  would 
have  ended  differently  —  and  maybe  not.  I'm  not 
quite  lacking  in  accomplishments,  you  know.     Arc 

134 


LITERATURE 


/ 


you  still  prepared  to  complain?.  Was  it  not  for 
the  best  that  I  went  to  Munich?  Would  I  have 
made  your  acquaintance  else  ? 

Clem.  You  didn't  go  there  with  that  object 
in  view. 

Marg.     I  wanted  to  be  free  spiritually,  I  mean.       ^ 

I  wanted  to  prove  to  myself  whether  I  could  sue-   ^     7 
ceed  through  my  own  efforts.     And,  admit,  didn't  1/ 

it  look  as  if  I  was  jolly  well  going  to?  I  had 
made  some  headway  on  the  road  to  fame. 

Clem.     H'm  I 

Marg.     But  you  were  dearer  to  me  than  fame. 

Clem  [good-naturedly^     And  surer. 

Marg.  I  didn't  give  it  a  thought.  I  suppose 
it's  because  I  loved  you  from  the  very  start.  For 
in  my  dreams,  I  always  conjured  up  a  man  of  your 
likeness.  I  always  seemed  to  realize  that  it 
could  only  be  a  man  like  ycyj  who  would  make  me 
happy.  Blood  —  is  no  empty  thing.  Nothing 
whatever  can  weigh  in  the  balance  with  that.  You 
see,  that's  why  I  can't  resist  the  belief  — 

Clem.     What? 

Marg.  Oh,  sometimes  I  think  I  must  have 
blue  blood  in  my  veins,  too. 

Clem.    How  so? 

Marg.     It's  not  improbable? 

Clem.     I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand. 

Marg.  But  I  told  you  that  members  of  the 
nobility  were  entertained  at  our  house  — 

Clem.     Well,  and  if  they  were? 

Marg.    Who  knows  — 

Clem.  Margaret,  you're  positively  shocking. 
How  can  you  hint  at  such  a  thing  I 

Marg.     I  can  never  say  what  I  think  in  your 

135 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


presence  1  That's  your  only  shortcoming  — 
otherwise  you  would  be  quite  perfect.  [She 
smiles  up  to  him.^  YouVe  won  my  heart  com- 
pletely. That  very  first  evening,  when  you  walked 
into  the  cafe  with  Wangenheim,  I  had  an  immedi- 
ate presentiment:  this  is  hel  You  came"  among 
'  ^  that  group,  like  a  soul  from  another  world. 

_^-  *     — -      Clem.     I  hope  so.     And  I  thank  heaven  that 
^3  somehow  you  didn't  seem  to  be  altogether  one  of 

them,  either.  No.  Whenever  I  call  to  mind  that 
junto  —  the  Russian  girl,  for  instance,  who  be- 
cause of  her  close-cropped  hair  gave  the  appear- 
ance of  a  student  —  except  that  she  did  not  wear  a 
cap  — 

Marg.     Baranzewitsch  is  a  very  gifted  painter. 

Clem.  No  doubt.  You  pointed  her  out  to 
me  one  day  in  the  picture  gallery.  She  was  stand- 
ing on  a  ladder  at  the  time,  copying.  And  then 
the  fellow  with  the  Polish  name  — 

Marg.  [beginning'\ .     Zrkd  —  ^ 

Clem.  Spare  yourself  the  pains.  You  don^t 
have  to  use  it  now  any  more.  He  read  something 
at  the  cafe  while  I  was  there,  without  putting  him- 
self out  the  least  bit. 

Marg.  He's  a  man  of  extraordinary  talent. 
I'll  vouch  for  it. 

Clem.  Oh,  no  doubt.  Everybody  is  talented 
at  the  cafe.  And  then  ♦ihat  yokel,  that  insuffer- 
able — 

Marg.    Who  ? 

Clem.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  That  fel- 
low who  persisted  in  making  tactless  observations 
about  the  aristocracy. 

Marg.     Gilbert.     You  must  mean  Gilbert. 

136 


LITERATURE 


Clem.  Yes.  Of  course.  I  don't  feel  called 
upon  to  make  a  brief  for  my  class.  Profligates 
crop  up  everywhere,  even  among  writers,  I  under- 
stand. But,  don't  you  know  it  was  very  bad  taste 
on  his  part  while  one  of  us  was  present  ? 

Marg.     That's  just  like  him. 

Clem.     I  had  to  hold  myself  in  check  not  to     rS 
knock  him  down.  —  ^ — 

Marg.     In  spite  of  that,  he  was  quite  interest-     ^^ 
ing.     And,  then,  you  mustn't  forget  he  was  raving 
jealous  of  you. 

Clem.  I  thought  I  noticed  that,  too. 
\Pau5e.'\ 

Marg.  Good  heavens,  they  were  all  jealous 
of  you.  Naturally  enough  —  you  were  so  unlike 
them.  They  all  paid  court  to  me  because  I 
wouldn't  discriminate  in  favor  of  any  one  of  them. 
You  certainly  must  have  noticed  that,  eh?  Why 
are  you  laughing? 

Clem.  Comical  — is  no  word  for  it  I  If  some 
one  had  prophesied  to  me  that  I  was  going  to 
marry  a  regular  frequenter  of  the  Cafe  Maxmil- 
lian  —  I  fancied  the  two  young  painters  most. 
They'd  have  made  an  incomparable  vaudeville 
team.  Do  you  know,  they  resembled  each  other 
so  much  and  owned  everything  they  possessed  in 
common  —  and,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  the  Russian 
on  the  ladder  along  with  the  rest. 

Marg.  I  didn't  bother  myself  with  such 
things. 

Clem.     And,  then,  both  must  have  been  Jews? 

Marg.    Why  so? 

Clem.  Oh,  simply  because  they  always  jested 
in  such  a  way.     And  their  enunciation. 

137 


\ 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Marg.  You  may  spare  your  anti-Semitic  re- 
marks. 

Clem.  Now,  sweetheart,  don*t  be  touchy.  I 
know  that  your  blood  is  not  untainted,  and  I  have 
nothing  whatever  against  the  Jews.  I  once  had  a 
tutor  in  Greek  who  was  a  Jew.  Upon  my  word  1 
He  was  a  capital  fellow.  One  meets  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  people.  I  don't  in  the  least  regret 
having  made  the  acquaintance  of  your  associates 
in  Munich.  It's  all  in  the  weave  of  our  life  ex- 
perience. But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  I  must 
have  appeared  to  you  like  a  hero  come  to  rescue 
A  </         you  in  the  nick  of  time. 

T"-      '      Marg.     Yes,  so  you  did.     My  Clem  I     Clem  I 
**       .  [Embraces  him.] 

^ — Clem.     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

Marg.     Something's  just  occurred  to  me. 
^,        ..  ^Clem.     What? 
)^'"'       Marg.     "  Abandoned  on  thy  breast  and  — '* 

Clem,  [vexed'].  Please  I  Must  you  always 
shatter  my  illusions  ? 

Marg.  Tell  me  truly,  Clem,  wouldn't  you  be 
proud  if  your  fiancee,  your  wife,  were  to  become 
a  great,  a  famous  writer? 

Clem.  I  have  already  told  you.  I  am  rooted 
in  my  decision.  And  I  promise  you  tliat  if  you 
begin  scribbling  or  publishing  poems  in  which  you 
paint  your  passion  for  me,  and  sing  to  the  world 
the  progress  of  our  love  —  it's  all  up  with  our 
wedding,  and  off  I  go. 

Marg.  You  threaten  —  you,  who  have  had 
a  dozen  well-known  affairs. 

Clem.  My  dear,  well-known  or  not,  I  didn't 
tell  anybody.     I  didn't  bring  out  a  book  whenever 

138 


LITERATURE 


a  woman  abandoned  herself  on  my  breast,  so  that 
any  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry  could  buy  it  for  a  gulden 
and  a  half.  There's  the  rub.  I  know  there  are 
people  who  thrive  by  it,  but,  as  for  me,  I  find  it 
extremely  coarse.  It's  more  degrading  to  me  than 
if  you  were  to  pose  as  a  Greek  goddess  in  flesh- 
colored  tights  at  Ronacher's.  A  Greek  statue  like 
that  doesn't  say  "  Mew."  But  a  writer  who 
makes  copy  of  everything  goes  beyond  the  merely 
humorous. 

Marg.  [nervously"].  Dearest,  you  forget  that 
the  poet  does  not  always  tell  the  truth.  ^— 

Clem.     And  suppose  he  only  vaporizes.     Does     —  SS^ 
that  make  it  any  better?  ...  ^ 

Marg.  It  isn't  called  vaporizing;  it's  "  dis- 
tillation." 

Clem.     What  sort  of  an  expression  is  that? 

Marg.  We  disclose  things  we  never  experi- 
enced, things  we  dreamed  —  plainly  invented. 

Clem.  Don't  say  "  we  "  any  more,  Margaret. 
Thank  goodness,  that  is  past. 

Marg.     Who  knows? 

Clem.    What? 

Marg.  Itenderly].  Clement,  I  must  tell  you 
all. 

Clem.     What  is  it? 

Marg.  It  is  not  past;  I  haven't  given  up  my 
writing. 

Clem.    Why? 

Marg.  I'm  still  going  on  with  my  writing,  or, 
rather,  I've  finished  writmg  another  book.  Yes, 
the  impulse  is  stronger  than  most  people  realize. 
I  really  believe  I  should  have  gone  to  pieces  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  my  writing. 

139 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


(J' 


Clem.     What  have  you  written  now? 

Marg.  a  novel.  The  weight  was  too  heavy 
to  be  borne.  It  might  have  dragged  me  down  — 
down.  Until  today,  I  tried  to  hide  it  from  you, 
but  it  had  to  come  out  at  last.  Kunigel  is  im- 
mensely taken  with  it. 

Clem.     Who's  Kunigel? 

Marg.     My  publisher. 

Clem.     Then  it's  been  read  already. 

Marg.  Yes,  and  lots  more  will  read  it. 
Clement,  you  will  have  cause  to  be  proud,  believe 
me; 

Clem.     You're  mistaken,  my  dear.     I  think  — 
but,  tell  me,  what's  it  about? 
—    Marg.     I  can't  tell  you  right  off.     The  novel 
^  7        contains  the  greatest  part,  so  to  speak,  and  all  that 
can  be  said  of  the  greatest  part. 

Clem.     My  compliments! 

Marg.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  promise  you 
never  to  pick  up  a  pen  any  more.     I  don't  need  to. 

Clem.     Margaret,  do  you  love  me? 

Marg.  What  a  question !  You  and  you  only. 
Though  I  have  seen  a  great  deal,  though  I  have 
gadded  about  a  great  deal,  I  have  experienced 
comparatively  little.  I  have  waited  all  my  life 
for  your  coming. 

Clem.     Well,  let  me  have  the  book. 

Marg.     Why  —  why?    What  do  you  mean? 

Clem.  I  grant  you,  there  was  some  excuse  in 
your  having  written  it;  but  it  doesn't  follow  that 
it's  got  to  be  read.  Let  me  have  it,  and  we'll 
throw  it  into  the  fire. 

Marg.     Clem ! 

140 


\ 


LITERATURE 


Clem.  I  make  that  request.  I  have  a  right 
to  make  it. 

Marg.     Impossible!     It  simply  — 

Clem.  Why?  If  I  wish  it;  if  I  tell  you  our 
whole  future  depends  on  it.  Do  you  understand  ? 
Is  it  still  impossible  ? 

Marg.  But,  Clement,  the  novel  has  already 
been  printed. 

Clem.     What!     Printed? 

Marg.  Yes.  In  a  few  days  it  will  be  on  sale 
on  all  the  book-stalls. 

Clem.  Margaret,  you  did  all  that  without  a 
word  to  me  — ? 

Marg.     I  couldn't  do  otherwise.     Wheh  once 
you  see  it,  you  will  forgive  me.     More  than  that,        /  O 
you  will  be  proud.  -il-L 

Clem.     My  dear,  this  has  progressed  beyond      /  <? 
a  joke.  ^i- 

Marg.     Clement! 

Clem.    Adieu,  Margaret. 

Marg.  Clement,  what  does  this  mean?  You 
are  leaving? 

Clem.     As  you  see. 

Marg.     When  are  you  coming  back  again  ? 

Clem.     I  can't  say  just  now.     Adieu. 

Marg.     Clement!      {Tries  to  hold  htm  hack.'\ 

Clem.     Please.     \Goes  o«/.] 

Marg.  \_alone\.  Clement!  What  does  this 
mean?  He's  left  me  for  good.  What  shall  I 
do  ?  Clement !  Is  everything  between  us  at  an 
end?  No.  It  can't  be.  Clement!  I'll  go  after 
him.  \^he  looks  for  her  hat.  The  doorbell 
rififfs.}     Ah,  he's  coming  back.     He  only  wanted 

141 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


to  frighten  me.  Oh,  my  Clement!  [Goes  to  the 
door.     Gilbert  enter s.'\ 

Gil.    [to   the   maid].     I    told  you   so.     Ma- 
dame's  at  home.     How  do  you  do,  Margaret? 

Marg.  [astonished].     You? 

Gil.     It's  I  —  I.     Amandus  Gilbert. 

Marg.     I'm  so  surprised. 

Gil.  So  I  see.  There's  no  cause  for  it.  I 
merely  thought  I'd  stop  over.  I'm  on  my  way  to 
Italy.  I  came  to  offer  you  my  latest  book  for 
auld  lang  syne.  [Hands  her  the  book.  As  she 
does  not  take  it,  he  places  it  on  the  table.] 
^  ^  Marg.     It's  very  good  of  you.     Thanks ! 

(n^  Gil.     You   have   a   certain  proprietorship   in 

^^^         that  book.     So  you  are  living  here  ? 

Marg.     Yes,  but  — 
'     \  Gil.     Opposite  the  stadium,  I  see.     As  far  as 

furnished  rooms  go,  it's  passable  enough.  But 
these  family  portraits  on  the  walls  would  drive  me 
crazy. 

Marg.  My  housekeeper's  the  widow  of  a  gen- 
eral. 

Gil.     Oh,  you  needn't  apologize. 

Marg.  Apologize!  Really,  the  idea  never 
occurred  to  me. 

Gil.     It's  wonderful  to  hark  back  to  it  now 

Marg.     To  what? 

Gil.  Why  shouldn't  I  say  it?  To  the  small 
room  in  Steinsdorf  street,  with  its  balcony  abut- 
ting over  the  Isar.  Do  you  remember,  Mar- 
garet? 

Marg.     Suppose  we  drop  the  familiar. 

Gil.     As  you  please  —  as  you  please.     [Pause, 

142 


\  / 


LITERATURE 


then    suddenly. '\     You    acted   shamefully,    Mar- 
garet. 

Marg.     What  do  you  mean? 

Gil.  Would  you  much  rather  that  I  beat 
around  the  bush?  I  can  find  no  other  word,  to 
my  regret.  And  it  was  so  uncalled  for,  too. 
Straightforwardness  would  have  done  just  as 
nicely.  It  was  quite  unecessary  to  run  away  from 
Munich  under  cover  of  a  foggy  night. 

Marg.  It  wasn't  night  and  it  wasn't  foggy. 
I  left  in  the  morning  on  the  eight-thirty  train,  in 
open  daylight. 

Gil.  At  all  events,  you  might  have  said  good- 
bye to  me  before  leaving,  eh  ?     [_Sits.'\ 

Marg.     I  expect  the  Baron  back  any  minute. 

Gil.  What  difference  does  that  make?  Of 
course,  you  didn't  tell  him  that  you  lay  in  my  arms 
once  and  worshipped  me.  I'm  just  an  old  ac- 
quaintance from  Munich.  And  there's  no  harm 
in  an  old  acquaintance  calling  to  see  you  ?  (<, 

Marg.     Anybody  but  you. 

Gil.     Why?     Why  do  you  persist  in  misun-         /"^  u 
derstanding  me  ?     I  assure  you,  I  come  only  as  an 
old  acquaintance.     Everything  else  is  dead  and 
buried,  long  dead  and  buried.     Here.     See  for 
yourself.      [Indicates  the  book."] 

Marg.     What's  that? 

Gil.     My  latest  novel. 

Marg.     Have  you  taken  to  writing  novels? 

Gil.     Certainly. 

Marg.     Since  when  have  you  learned  the  trick? 

Gil.     What  do  you  mean? 

Marg.     Heavens,  can't  I  remember  ?    Thumb- 

143 


c/ 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


7  ^ 


nail  sketches  were  your  specialty,  observation  of 
daily  events. 

Gil.  [excitedly^.  My  specialty?  My  spe- 
cialty is  life  itselr.  I  write  what  suits  me.  I  do 
not  allow  myself  to  be  circumscribed.  I  don't  sec 
who's  to  prevent  my  writing  a  novel. 

Marg.     But  the  opinion  of  an  authority. was  — 

Gil.     Pray,  who's  an  authority? 

Marg.  I  call  to  mind,  for  instance,  an  article 
by  Neumann  in  the  "  Algemeine  " — 

Gil.  [angrily'\.  Neumann's  a  blamed  idiot  I 
I  boxed  his  ears  for  him  once. 

Marg.     You  — 

Gil.  In  effigy  —  But  you  were  quite  as  much 
wrought  up  about  the  business  as  I  at  that  time. 
We  were  perfectly  agreed  that  Neumann  was  a 
blamed  idiot.  "  How  can  such  a  numbskull 
dare  " —  these  were  your  very  words  — "  to  set 
bounds  to  your  genius  ?  How  can  he  dare  to  stifle 
your  next  work  still,  so  to  speak,  in  the  womb?  " 
You  said  that  I  And  today  you  quote  that  literary 
hawker  I 

Marg.  Please  do  not  shout.  My  house- 
keeper — 

Gil.  I  don't  propose  to  bother  myself  about 
the  widows  of  defunct  generals  when  every  nerve 
in  my  body  is  a-tingle. 

Marg.  What  did  I  say?  I  can't  account  for 
your  touchiness. 

Gil.  Touchiness  1  You  call  me  touchy? 
You  I  Who  used  to  be  seized  with  a  violent  fit 
of  trembling  every  time  some  insignificant  booby 
on  some  trumpery  sheet  happened  to  utter  an  un- 
favorable word  of  criticism. 

144 


LITERATURE 


Marg.  I  don't  remember  one  word  of  un- 
favorable criticism  against  me. 

Gil.  H'm!  I  dare  say  you  may  be  right. 
Critics  are  always  chivalrous  toward  beautiful 
women. 

Marg.  Chivalrous  ?  Do  you  think  my  poems 
were  praised  out  of  chivalry?  What  about  your 
own  estimate  — 

Gil.  Mine  ?  I'm  not  going  to  retract  so  much 
as  one  little  word.  I  simply  want  to  remind  you 
that  you  composed  your  sheaf  of  lovely  poems 
while  we  were  living  together. 

Marg.  And  you  actually  consider  yourself 
worthy  of  them? 

Gil.  Would  you  have  written  them  if  it 
weren't  for  me  ?     They  are  addressed  to  me. 

Marg.     Never  I 

Gil.  What  I  Do  you  mean  to  deny  that  they 
are  addressed  to  me?    This  is  monstrous  1 

Marg.  No.  They  are  not  addressed  to 
you. 

Gil.  I  am  dumbfounded.  Shall  I  remind  you 
of  the  situations  in  which  some  of  your  loveliest 
verses  had  birth  ? 

Marg.  They  were  inscribed  to  an  Ideal  — 
[Gilbert  points  to  himself] — whose  representa- 
tive on  earth  you  happened  to  be. 

Gil.  Ha  1  This  is  precious.  Where  did  you 
get  that?  Do  you  know  what  the  French  would 
say  in  a  case  like  that?  "  C'est  de  la  littera- 
ture  I  " 

Marg.  [mimicking  him],  Ce  n'est  pas  de  la 
litteraturel  Now,  that's  the  truth,  the  honest 
truth  I     Or  do  you  really  fancy  that  by  the  "  slim 

145 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


boy  "  I  meant  you?  Or  that  the  curls  I  hymned 
belonged  to  you  ?  At  that  time  you  were  fat  and 
your  hair  was  never  curly.  {^Runs  her  finders 
through  his  hair.  Gilbert  seizes  the  opportunity 
to  capture  her  hand  and  kiss  it."].     What  an  idea  I 

Gil.  At  that  time  you  pictured  it  so;  or,  at 
all  events,  that  is  what  you  called  it.  To  be  sure, 
a  poet  is  forced  to  take  every  sort  of  license  for 
the  sake  of  the  rythm.  Didn't  I  once  apostro- 
phise you  in  a  sonnet  as  "  my  canny  lass  "?  In 
point  of  fact,  you  were  neither  —  no,  I  don't  want 
to  be  unfair  —  you  were  canny,  shamefully  canny, 
perversely  canny.  And  it  suited  you  perfectly. 
Well,  I  suppose  I  really  oughtn't  wonder  at  you. 
You  were  at  all  times  a  snob.  And,  by  Jove  I 
you've  attained  your  end.  You  have  decoyed 
your  blue-blooded  boy  with  his  well-manicured 
hands  and  his  unmanicured  brain,  your  matchless 
horseman,  fencer,  marksman,  tennis  player,  heart- 
trifler  —  Marlitt  could  not  have  invented  him 
more  revolting  than  he  actually  was.  Yes,  what 
more  can  you  wish  ?  Whether  he  will  satisfy  you 
—  who  are  acquainted  with  something  nobler  — 
is,  of  course,  another  question.  I  can  only  say 
that,  in  my  view,  you  are  degenerate  in  love. 

Marg.  That  must  have  struck  you  on  the 
train. 

Gil.  Not  at  all.  It  struck  me  this  very  mo- 
ment. 

Marg.     Make  a  note  of  it  then;  it's  an  apt 
7    -.  phrase. 

Gil.  I've  another  quite  as  apt.  Formerly 
you  were  a  woman;  now  you're  a  sweet  thing." 
Yes,  that's  it.     What  attracted  you  to  a  man 

146 


-■f c^. 


^. 


LITERATURE 


of  that  type  ?     Passion  —  frank  and  filthy  pas- 
sion— 

Marg.     Stop  I     You  have  a  motive  — 

Gil.  My  dear,  I  still  lay  claim  to  the  posses- 
sion of  a  soul. 

Marg.     Except  now  and  then. 

Gil.  Please  don't  try  to  disparage  our  former 
relations.  It's  no  use.  They  are  the  noblest  ex- 
periences you've  ever  had. 

Marg.  Heavens,  when  I  think  that  I  endured 
this  twaddle  for  one  whole  year  I  — 

Gil.  Endure?  You  were  intoxicated  with 
joy.  Don't  try  to  be  ungrateful.  I'm  not.  Ad- 
mitting that  you  behaved  never  so  execrably  at  the 
end,  yet  I  can't  bring  myself  to  look  upon  it  with 
bitterness.     It  had  to  come  just  that  way. 

Marg.     Indeed! 

Gil.  I  owe  you  an  explanation.  This :  at  the 
moment  when  you  were  beginning  to  drift  away 
from  me,  when  homesickness  for  the  stables 
gripped  you  —  la  nostalgie  de  Vecurie  —  at  that 
moment  I  was  done  with  you. 

Marg.     Impossible. 

Gil.  You  failed  to  notice  the  least  sign  in 
your  characteristic  way.  I  was  done  with  you. 
To  be  plain,  I  didn't  need  you  any  longer.  What 
you  had  to  give  you  gave  me.  Your  uses  were 
fulfilled.  In  the  depths  of  your  soul  you  knew, 
unconsciously  you  knew  — 

Marg.     Please  don't  get  so  hot. 

Gil.  [unruffled'].  That  our  day  was  over. 
Our  relations  nad  served  their  purpose.  I  don't 
regret  having  loved  you. 

Marg.    I  do  I 

147 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


*GiL.  Capital  I  This  measly  outburst  must  re- 
veal to  a  person  of  any  insight  just  one  thing :  the 
essential  line  of  difference  between  the  artist  and 
the  dilettante.  To  you,  Margaret,  our  liaison 
means  nothing  more  than  the  memory  of  a  few 
abandoned  nights,  a  few  heart-to-heart  talks  in 
the  winding  ways  of  the  English  gardens.  But  / 
have  made  it  over  into  a  work  of  art. 

Marg.     So  have  1 1 

Gil.     Eh?     What  do  you  mean? 

Marg.  I  have  done  what  you  have  done.  I, 
too,  have  written  a  novel  in  which  our  relations 
are  depicted.  I,  too,  have  embalmed  our  love  — 
or  what  we  thought  was  our  love  —  for  all  time. 

Gil.  If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  talk  of  "  for 
all  time  "  before  the  appearanec  of  the  second 
edition. 

Marg.  Your  writing  a  novel  and  my  writing 
a  novel  are  two  different  things. 

Gil.     Maybe. 

Marg,  You  are  a  free  man.  You  don't  have 
to  steal  your  hours  devoted  to  artistic  labor.  And 
your  future  doesn't  depend  on  the  throw. 

Gil.     And  you? 

Marg.  That's  what  I've  done.  Only  a  half 
hour  ago  Clement  left  me  because  I  confessed  to 
him  that  I  had  written  a  novel. 

Gil.     Left  you  —  for  good? 

Marg.  I  don't  know.  But  it  isn't  unlikely. 
He  went  away  in  a  fit  of  anger.  What  he'll  de- 
cide to  do  I  can't  say. 

Gil.  So  he  objects  to  your  writing,  does  he? 
He  can't  bear  to  see  his  mistress  put  her  intelli- 
gence to  some  use.     Capital  I     And  he  represents 

148 


LITERATURE 


the  blood  of  the  country  I  H'ml  And  you, 
you're  not  ashamed  to  give  yourself  up  to  the  arms 
of  an  idiot  of  this  sort,  whom  you  once  — 

Marg.  Don't  you  speak  of  him  like  that. 
You  don't  know  him. 

Gil.    Ah  I 

Marg.  You  don't  know  why  he  objects  to 
my  writing.  Purely  out  of  love.  He  feels  that 
if  I  go  on  I  will  be  living  in  a  world  entirely  apart 
from  him.  He  blushes  at  the  thought  that  I 
should  make  copy  of  the  most  sacred  feelings  of 
my  soul  for  unknown  people  to  read.  It  is  his 
wish  that  I  belong  to  him  only,  and  that  is  why 
he  dashed  out  —  no,  not  dashed  out  —  for  Clem- 
ent doesn't  belong  to  the  class  that  dashes  out. 

Gil.  Your  observation  is  well  taken.  In  any 
case,  he  went  away.  We  will  not  undertake  to 
discuss  the  tempo  of  his  going  forth.  And  he 
went  away  because  he  could  not  bear  to  see  you 
surrender  yourself  to  the  creative  impulse. 

Marg.  Ah,  if  he  could  only  understand  that  I 
But,  of  course,  that  can  never  be.  I  could  be  the 
best,  the  faithfulest,  the  noblest  woman  in  the 
world  if  the  right  man  only  existed. 

Gil.  At  all  events,  you  admit  he  is  not  the 
right  man. 

Marg.     I  never  said  that  I 

Gil.  But  you  ought  to  realize  that  he's  fet- 
tering you,  undoing  you  utterly,  seeking  through 
egotism,  to  destroy  your  inalienable  self.  Look 
back  for  a  moment  at  the  Margaret  you  were ;  at 
the  freedom  that  was  yours  while  you  loved  me. 
Think  of  the  younger  set  who  gathered  about  me 
and  who  belonged  no  whit  less  to  you?  Do  you 
—  149 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


never  long  for  those  days?  Do  you  never  call 
to  mind  the  small  room  with  its  balcony —  Be- 
neath us  plunged  the  Isar —  [i/tf  seizes  her 
hand  and  presses  her  near.'} 

Marg.     Ah  I 

Gil.  All's  not  beyond  recall,  f  It  need  not  be 
the  Isar,  need  it?  I  have  something  to  propose 
to  you,  Margaret.  Tell  him,  when  he  returns, 
that  you  still  have  some  important  matters  to  ar- 
range at  Municlr,  and  spend  the  time  with  me. 
Margaret,  you  are  so  lovely  I  We  shall  be  happy 
again  as  then.  Do  you  remember  [very  near  her} 
*'  Abandoned  on  thy  breast  and  — " 

Marg.  [retreating  brusquely  from  him}.  Go, 
go  away.  No,  no.  Please  go  away.  I  don't 
love  you  any  more. 

Gil.  Oh,  h'm  —  indeed !  Oh,  in  that  case  I 
beg  your  pardon.      [Pause.}     Adieu,  Margaret. 

Marg.     Adieu. 

Gil.  Won't  you  present  me  with  a  copy  of 
your  novel  as  a  parting  gift,  as  I  have  done  ? 

Marg.  It  hasn't  come  out  yet.  It  won't  be 
on  sale  before  next  week. 

Gil.  Pardon  my  inquisitiveness,  what  kind  of 
a  story  is  it?  , 

Marg.  The  story  of  my  life.  J  So  veiled,  to 
be  sure,  that  I  am  in  no  danger  of  being  recog- 
nized. 

Gil.     I  see.     How  did  you  manage  to  do  it? 

Marg.  Very  simply.  For  one  thing,  the  her- 
oine is  not  a  writer  but  a  painter. 

Gil.     Very  clever. 

Marg.  Her  first  husband  is  not  a  cotton 
manufacturer,  but  a  big  financier,  and,  of  course, 

150 


LITERATURE 


it  wouldn't    do  to  deceive  him  with  a  tenor  — 

Gil.     Hal     Hal 

Marg.     What  strikes  you  so  funny? 

Gil.  So  you  deceived  him  with  a  tenor?  I 
didn't  know  that. 

Marg.     Whoever  said  so? 

Gil.     Why,  you  yourself,  just  now. 

Marg.  How  so?  I  say  the  heroine  of  the 
book  deceives  her  husband  with  a  baritone. 

Gil.  Bass  would  have  been  more  sublime, 
mezzo-soprano  more  piquant. 

Marg.  Then  she  doesn't  go  to  Munich,  but 
to  Dresden ;  and  there,  has  an  affair  with  a  sculp- 
tor. 

Gil.     That's  me  —  veiled. 

Marg.  Very  much  veiled,  I  rather  fear. 
The  sculptor,  as  it  happens,  is  young,  hand- 
some and  a  genius.  In  spite  of  that  she  leaves 
him. 

Gil.     For  — 

Marg.     Guess? 

Gil.     a  jockey,  I  fancy. 

Marg.    Wretch  I 

Gil.     a  count,  a  prince  of  the  empire? 

Marg.     Wrong.     An  archduke. 

Gil.     I  must  say  you  have  spared  no  costs. 

Marg.  Yes,  an  archduke,  who  gave  up  the 
court  for  her  sake,  married  her  and  emigrated 
with  her  to  the  Canary  Islands. 

Gil.  The  Canary  Islands  I  Splendid  I  And 
then  — 

Marg.    With  the  disembarkation  — 

Gil.     In  Canaryland. 

Marg.    The  story  ends. 

151 


/v. 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Gil.  Good.  I'm  very  much  interested,  espe- 
cially in  the  veiling. 

Marg.  You  yourself  wouldn't  recognize  mc 
were  it  not  for  — 

Gil.    What? 

Marg.  The  third  chapter  from  the  end, 
where  our  correspondence  is  published  entire. 

Gil.    What? 

Marg.  Yes,  all  the  letters  you  sent  me  and 
those  I  sent  you  are  included  in  the  novel. 

Gil.  I  see,  but  may  I  ask  where  you  got  those 
you  sent  me?     I  thought  I  had  them. 

Marg.  I  know.  But,  you  see,  I  had  the  habit 
of  always  making  a  rough  draft. 

Gil.     a  rough  draft? 

Marg.    Yes. 

Gil.  a  rough  draft!  Those  letters  which 
seemed  to  have  been  dashed  off  in  such  tremen- 
dous haste.  "  Just  one  word,  dearest,  before  I  go 
to  bed  ?  My  eyelids  are  heavy  — "  and  when  your 
eyelids  were  closed  you  wrote  the  whole  thing  over 
again. 

Marg.     Are  you  piqued  about  it? 

Gil.  I  might  have  expected  as  much.  I 
ought  to  be  glad,  however,  that  they  weren't 
bought  from  a  professional  love-letter  writer. 
Oh,  how  everything  begins  to  crumble!  The 
whole  past  is  nothing  but  a  heap  of  ruins.  She 
made  a  rough  draft  of  her  letters  I 

Marg.  Be  content.  Maybe  my  letters  will 
be  all  that  will  remain  immortal  of  your  mem- 
ory. 

Gil.  And  along  with  them  will  remain  the 
fatal  story. 

152 


LITERATURE 


Marg.     Why? 

Gil.  [indicating  his  book].  Because  they  also 
appear  in  my  book. 

Marg.     In  where? 

Gil.     In  my  novel. 

Marg.    What? 

Gil.     Our  letters  —  yours  and  mine. 

Marg.  Where  did  you  get  your  own?  I've 
got  them  in  my  possession.  Ah,  so  you,  too,  made 
a  rough  draft? 

Gil.  Nothing  of  the  kind  1  I  only  copied 
them  before  mailing.  I  didn't  want  to  lose  them. 
There  are  some  in  my  book  which  you  didn't  even 
get.  They  were,  in  my  opinion,  too  beautiful  for 
you.     You  wouldn't  have  understood  them  at  all. 

Marg.  Merciful  heavens  I  If  this  is  so  — 
[turning  the  leaves  of  Gilberts  book"].  Yes, 
yes,  it  is  so.  Why,  it's  just  like  telling  the  world 
that  we  two  —  Merciful  heavens  I  [Feverishly 
turning  the  leaves."]  Is  the  letter  you  sent  me  the 
morning  after  the'  first  night  also  — 

Gil.     Surely.     That  was  brilliant. 

Marg.  This  is  horrible.  Why,  this  is  going 
to  create  a  European  sensation.  And  Clement  — 
My  God;  I'm  beginning  to  hope  that  he  will  not 
come  back.  I  am  ruined!  And  you  along  with 
me.  Wherever  you  are,  he'll  be  sure  to  find  you 
and  blow  your  brains  out  like  a  mad  dog. 

Gil.  [pocketing  his  book].  Insipid  compari- 
son! 

Marg.  How  did  you  hit  upon  such  an  insane 
idea  ?  To  publish  the  correspondence  of  a  woman 
whom,  in  all  sincerity,  you  professed  to  have 
loved!     Oh,  you're  no  gentleman. 

153 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Gil.  Quite  charming.  Haven't  you  done  the 
same? 

Marg.     I'm  a  woman. 

Gil.     Do  you  take  refuge  in  that  now? 

Marg.  Oh,  it's  true.  I  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach you  with.  We  were  made  for  one  an- 
other. Yes,  Clement  was  right.  We're  worse 
than  those  women  who  appear  in  flesh-colored 
tights.  Our  most  sacred  feelings,  our  pangs  — 
everything  —  we  make  copy  of  everything. 
Pfui !  Pfui  I  It's  sickening.  We  two  belong  to 
one  another.  Clement  would  only  be  doing  what 
is  right  if  he  drove  me  away.  \_Suddenly.'i 
Come,  Amandus. 

Gil.     What  is  it? 

Marg.     I  accept  your  proposal. 

Gil.     What  proposal  ? 

Marg.  I'm  going  to  cut  it  with  you.  [Looks 
for  her  hat  and  cloakJ] 

Gil.     Eh?    What  do  you  mean? 

Marg.  [very  much  excited;  puts  her  hat  on 
tightly'\.  Everything  can  be  as  it  was.  You've 
said  it.  It  needn't  be  the  Isar  —  well,  I'm 
ready. 

Gil.  Sheer  madness!  Cut  it  —  what's  the 
meaning  of  this  ?  Didn't  you  yourself  say  a  min- 
ute ago  that  he'd  find  me  anywhere.  If  you're 
with  me,  he'll  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  you,  too. 
Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  each  — 

Marg.  Wretch  I  Now  you  want  to  leave  me 
in  a  lurch  1  Why,  only  a  tew  minutes  ago  you 
were  on  your  knees  before  me.  Have  you  no  con- 
science ? 

Gil.    What's  the  use?    I  am  a  sick,  nervous 

154 


LITERATURE 


man,  suffering  from  hypochondria.  [Margaret 
at  the  window  utters  a  cry,"] 

Gil.  What's  up?  What  will  the  general's 
widow  think? 

Marg.     It's  he.     He's  coming  back. 

Gil.    Well,  then  — 

Marg.     What?     You  intend  to  go? 

Gil.  I  didn't  come  here  to  pay  the  baron  a 
visit. 

Marg.  He'll  encounter  you  on  the  stairs. 
That  would  be  worse.  Stay.  I  refuse  to  be  sac- 
rificed alone. 

Gil.  Now,  don't  lose  your  senses.  Why  do 
you  tremble  like  that?  It's  quite  absurd  to  be- 
lieve that  he's  already  gone  through  both  novels. 
Calm  yourself.  Remove  your  hat.  Off  with 
your  cloak.  [Assists  her.']  If  he  catches  you  in 
this  frame  of  mind  he  can't  help  but  suspect. 

Marg,  It's  all  the  same  to  me.  Better  now 
than  later.  I  can't  bear  waiting  and  waiting  for 
the  horrible  event.  I'm  going  to  tell  him  every- 
thing right  away. 

Gil.     Everything? 

Marg.  Yes.  And  while  you  are  still  here. 
If  I  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  now  maybe 
he'll  forgive  me. 

Gil.  And  me  —  what  about  me?  I  have  a 
higher  mission  in  the  world,  I  think,  than  to  suffer 
myself  to  be  shot  down  like  a  mad  dog  by  a  jealous 
baron.     [The  bell  rings."] 

Marg.     It's  hel     It's  he. 

Gil.  Understand,  you're  not  to  breathe  a 
word. 

Marg.    I've  made  up  my  mind. 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Gil.  Indeed,  have  a  care  For,  if  you  do,  I 
shall  sell  my  hide  at  a  good  price.  I  shall  hurl 
suc^  naked  truths  at  him  that  he'll  swear  no  baron 
hescd  the  like  of  them. 

Clem,  [entering,  somewhat  surprised,  but  quite 
cool  and  courteous}.  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert  I  Am  I 
right? 

Gil.  The  very  same,  Baron.  I'm  travelling 
south,  and  I  couldn't  repress  the  desire  to  pay  my 
respects  to  madame. 

Clem.  Ah,  indeed.  [Pause.}  Pardon  me, 
it  seems  I've  interrupted  your  conversation. 
Pray,  don't  let  me  disturb  you. 

Gil.     What  were  we  talking  about  just  now? 

Clem.  Perhaps  I  can  assist  your  memory.  In 
Munich,  if  I  recall  correctly,  you  always  talked 
about  your  books. 

Gil.  Quite  so.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was 
speaking  about  my  new  novel. 

Clem.  Pray,  continue.  Nowadays,  I  find 
that  I,  too,  can  talk  literature.  Eh,  Margaret? 
Is  it  naturalistic  ?  Symbolic  ?  Autobiographical  ? 
Or  —  let  me  see  —  is  it  distilled? 

Gil.  Oh,  in  a  certain  sense  we  all  write  about 
our  life-experiences. 

Clem.     H'm.     That's  good  to  know. 

Gil.  Yes,  if  you're  painting  the  character  of 
Nero,  in  my  opinion  it's  absolutely  necessary  that 
you  should  have  set  fire  to  Rome  — 

Clem.     Naturally. 

Gil.  From  what  source  should  a  writer  de- 
rive his  inspiration  if  not  from  himself?  Where 
should  he  go  for  his  models  if  not  to  the  life  which 

156 


LITERATURE 


is  nearest  to  him  ?     [Margaret  becomes  more  and 
more  uneasy.'}  „ 

Clem.     Isn't  it  a  pity,  though,  that  the  models  ___£^ 
are  so  rarely  consulted?     But  I  must  say,  if  I       'g  Z 
were  a  woman,  I'd  think  twice  before  I'd  let  such       o  ^ 
people  know  anything —     [Sharply.}     Indecent 
society,  sir,  that's  the  same  as  compromising  a 
woman  I 

Gil.  I  don't  know  whether  I  belong  to  decent 
society  or  not,  but,  in  my  humble  opinion,  it's  the 
same  as  ennobling  a  woman. 

Clem.     Indeed. 

Gil.  The  essential  thing  is,  does  it  really  hit 
the  mark?  In  a  higher  sense,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter if  the  public  does  know  that  a  woman  was 
happy  in  this  bed  or  that? 

Clem.  Mr.  Gilbert,  allow  me  to  remind  you 
that  you  are  speaking  in  the  presence  of  a  lady. 

Gil.  I'm  speaking  in  the  presence  of  a  com- 
rade, Baron,  who,  perhaps,  shares  my  views  in 
these  matters. 

Clem.     Oh  I 

Marg.  Clement  I  [Throws  herself  at  his 
feet.}     Clement  1 

Clem  [staggered}.     But  —  Margaret. 

Marg.     Your  forgiveness,  Clement! 

Clem.  But,  Margaret.  [To  Gilbert.}  It's 
very  painful  to  me,  Mr.  Gilbert.  Now,  get  up, 
Margaret.  Get  up,  everything's  all  right;  every- 
thing's arranged.  Yes,  yes.  You  have  but  to  call 
up  Kiinigel.  I  have  already  arranged  everything 
with  him.  We  are  going  to  put  it  out  for  sale. 
Is  that  suitable  to  you  ? 

Gil.    What  are  you  going  to  put  out  for  sale, 

157 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to  ask?     The  novel  madame 
has  written? 

Clem.  Ah,  so  you  know  already.  At  all 
events,  Mr.  Gilbert,  it  seems  that  your  camarad' 
erie  is  not  required  any  further. 

Gil.  Yes.  There's  really  nothing  left  for  me 
but  to  beg  to  be  excused.     I'm  sorry. 

Clem.  I  very  much  regret,  Mr.  Gilbert,  that 
you  had  to  witness  a  scene  which  might  almost  be 
called  domestic. 

Gil.     Oh,  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  any  further. 

Gil.  Madame  —  Baron,  may  I  offer  you  a 
copy  of  my  book  as  a  token  that  all  ill-feeling  be- 
tween us  has  vanished?  As  a  feeble  sign  of  my 
sympathy,  Baron? 

Clem.  You're  very  good,  Mr.  Gilbert.  I 
must,  however,  tell  you  that  this  is  going  to  be  the 
last,  or  the  one  before  the  last,  that  I  ever  intend 
to  read. 

Gil.     The  one  before  the  last  ? 

Clem.     Yes. 

Marg.     And  what's  the  last  going  to  be? 

Clem.  Yours,  my  love.  [Draws  an  ad- 
vance copy  from  his  pocket.^  I  wheedled  an  ad- 
vance copy  from  Kiinigel  to  bring  to  you,  or, 
rather,  to  both  of  us.  [Margaret  and  Gilbert  ex- 
change scared  glances.^ 

Marg.  How  good  of  you  I  [Taking  the 
book.]     Yes,  it's  mine. 

Clem.     We  will  read  it  together. 

Marg.  No,  Clement,  no.  I  cannot  accept  so 
much  kindness.  [She  throws  the  book  into  the 
fireplace.']  I  don't  want  to  hear  of  this  sort  of 
thing  any  more. 

158 


LITERATURE 


Gil.  [very  joyful].     But,  dear  madame  — 

Clem,  [ffoing  toward  the  fireplace].  Mar- 
garet, what  have  you  done  ? 

Marg.  [in  front  of  the  fireplace,  throwing  her 
arms  about  Clement] .  Now,  do  you  believe  that 
I  love  you  I 

Gil.  [most  gleeful].  It  appears  that  Vm  en- 
tirely de  trop  here.  Dear  Madame  —  Baron  — 
[To  himself,]  Pity,  though,  I  can't  stay  for  the 
last  chapter.      [Goes  out.] 


^Curtain.] 


159 


HIS  HELPMATE 

PERSONS 

Professor  Robert  Pilgram. 
DocTER  Alfred  Hausmann. 
Professor  Werkmann. 
Professor  Brand. 
Olga  Merholm. 

Franz,    manservant  at  Pilgram*s  summer  resi- 
dence. 

The  action  takes  place  in  a  summer  resort  not 
far  removed  from  Vienna,  on  an  autumn  evening 
in  the  year  i8gj. 

[Scene:  An  elegantly  furnished  room. 
The  wall  paper  and  furniture  are  light  tinted; 
blue  is  th^e  prevailing  shade.  On  /he  left, 
down  stage,  a  lady's  escritoire  stands;  on  the 
right,  a  piano.  Left  and  right  entrances  fac- 
ing each  other.  In  the  rear,  a  wide-open  door 
giving  on  to  a  balcony.  Through  the  door  the 
audience  is  afforded  an  uninterrupted  view  of 
the  landscape.  A  street,  rising  gradually, 
winds  far  in  the  distance  until  it  is  cut  off  by 
a  cemetery  wall.  The  wall  is  not  very  high,  so 
that  gravestones  and  crosses  are  visible  above 
its  crest.     Far  beyond  loom  haze-enshrouded 

1 60 


HIS  HELPMATE 


mountain  peaks,  quite  steep.  The  time  is  late 
evening  —  almost  night. 

The  landscape  is  bathed  in  a  soft  gloom,  and 
the  moon  has  illumined  the  single  street  with  its 
silver  glow. 

Robert  enters  from  the  right ,  escorting  Pro- 
fessors fVerkmann  and  Brand  to  the  door.} 

Rob.  Excuse  me  a  moment,  gentlemen,  while 
I  fetch  a  light.     How  dark  it  is  here ! 

Werk.  Much  obliged,  dear  fellow.  I  guess 
we  can  find  our  way  out. 

Rob.  It'll  only  take  a  minute.  [Goes  out; 
Werkmann  and  Brand  remain  motionless  in  the 
gloom.J 

Werk.  How  lightly  he  seems  to  bear  the 
blow. 

Brand.  Merely  a  mask,  my  dear  Werkmann; 
the  comic  mask. 

Werk.  I  dare  say;  but  when  one's  burying 
one's  wife,  the  —  er  —  comic  — 

Brand.  It  is  evident,  my  dear  Werkmann, 
you  know  mighty  little  about  Pilgram.  Don't  you 
perceive,  it  has  a  very  dazzling  effect  on  people. 
I  mean  this  interment  of  one's  wife  in  the  after- 
noon, and  atop  of  that  a  two-hour  long  discussion 
on  scientific  subjects  in  the  evening.  Why,  you 
yourself  were  taken  in  by  it. 

Werk.     A  man  has  got  to  be  a  man.  Brand. 

[Enter  Robert  with   a   branched  candlestick. 
Two  candles  are  lit.'\ 

Rob.  Here  I  am  again,  gentlemen.  \The 
room  is  illuminated  but  faintly."} 

Werk.     Exactly  where  are  we  now? 

i6i 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Rob.  Oh,  this  was  my  poor  wife's  room. 
That  small  flight  of  stairs  over  there  will  take  us 
to  the  garden  gate  and  in  five  minutes  you  will  be 
at  the  station. 

Brand.  Is  there  any  chance  of  our  still  mak- 
ing the  nine  o'clock  train  ? 

Rob.  I  think  so.  [The  door  on  the  right  is 
pushed  open  from  without.  Enter  Franz  with  a 
wreath.'\ 

Rob.     What  is  it? 

Franz.  This  wreath  has  just  come  from  the 
city,  sir. 

Rob.     So  late  I 

Werk.  Probably  one  of  your  friends  who  got 
the  news  too  late.  It's  not  unusual,  I  assure  you. 
Many  more  of  these  melancholy  tokens  will  pour 
in ;  you'll  see.     Ah  I  I've  gone  through  it  all.  ^ 

Franz.     Where  shall  I  put  the  wreath,  sir? 

Rob.  [to  Franz].     On  the  balcony. 

[Franz  puts  it  as  bidden,  then  goes  out^ 

Werk.  Your  assistant,  I  understand,  is  away 
on  his  vacation? 

Rob.  Yes;  but  I  expect  him  back  ere  long.  I 
shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he  returns  tomor- 
row. 

Werk.  I  suppose  you'll  arrange  for  his  tak- 
ing your  place  during  the  early  part  of  the  semes- 
ter. 

Rob.  Not  at  all.  I  don't  propose  to  give  up 
my  work. 

Werk.  [grasping  his  hand].  By  Jove,  that's 
fine  I  I'm  fully  convinced  it's  the  only  balm  there 
is. 

Rob.     So  it  is.    Even  if  work  did  not  act  In 

162 


HIS  HELPMATE 


the  way  of  a  balm,  to  my  mind,  it  is  an  open  ques- 
tion still  whether  we  are  justified  in  shelving  a 
slice  of  our  brief  existence.  After  we  have  been 
cowardly  enough  to  survive  the  first  staggering 
blow.      [He  precedes  them  in  going  out."] 

Werk.  [to  Brand}.  Proof  positive,  my  dear 
Brand,  he  never  entertained  the  least  bit  of  affec- 
tion for  his  wife. 

Brand  [with  a  shrug}.  H'ml  [All  go  out, 
right.  For  a  few  minutes  the  stage  remains 
empty.  Olga  enters  from  the  left.  She  is  clad 
in  a  dark  evening  costume  without  a  hat.  She 
casts  off  her  light  fur-lined  mantle.  Enter  Franz 
from  the  balcony.} 

Franz.     Good  evening,  Frau  Merholm. 

Olga.  The  professor  —  is  in  the  garden,  I 
suppose. 

Franz.  Yes,  m*m,  escorting  two  gentlemen  — 
[Olga  makes  a  sign  to  him  as  Robert  enters  with' 
out  noticing  her.} 

Rob.  [going  toward  the  escritoire}.  Franz, 
can  you  tell  me  when  the  last  train  from  the  city's 
due  here  ? 

Franz.     Ten  o'clock,  sir. 

Rob.  H'm.  [Pause.}  Then  we  may  still 
count  on  Dr.  Hausmann's  arrival  this  evening.  If 
he  should  come,  without  further  delay  show  him 
in  to  me. 

Franz.     Here? 

Rob.  If  I  should  happen  to  be  here  at  the 
time,  yes.  [Franz  goes  out.  Robert  sits  down 
to  the  escritoire,  about  to  unlock  it.} 

Olga  [advancing  behind  him}.  Good  even- 
ing. 

163 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Rob.  [surprised],     Olgal     [Rises.] 

Olga  [mastering  her  embarrassment  with  dif- 
ficulty]. How  I  ached  to  grasp  your  hand  this 
whole  dreary  day  I 

Rob.  And  I  yours.  I  am  grateful  to  you  all 
the  same,  Olga.     [Extends  his  hand.] 

Olga.  Robert,  you  are  Indeed  blessed  with  a 
great  many  friends;  this  day  bore  witness  to  the 
fact. 

Rob.  Yes.  The  last  of  them  have  just  taken 
their  leave. 

Olga.  Pray,  who  can  have  stayed  as  late  as 
this  ? 

Rob.  Brand  and  Werkmann  —  a  pair  of  sniv- 
eling old  wives  I  Just  fancy  the  fellow  is  incon- 
ceivably proud  he  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his 
wife  last  year  1  He  certainly  speaks  with  the  au- 
thority or  a  connoisseur  in  these  things,  the  vain 
idiot  I  [Pause.]  But  fancy  your  leaving  the 
villa  unaccompanied  I  ' 

Olga.  Do  you  think  I'm  afraid  to  cut  across 
the  fields  alone  ? 

Rob.     No;  but  won't  your  husband  be  uneasy? 

Olga.  On  the  contrary.  He's  under  the  im- 
pression I'm  snug  asleep  up  in  my  room.  Be- 
sides, I  very  often  take  a  stroll  in  the  garden  at  a 
late  hour  — 

Rob.     Along  our  path,  eh? 

Olga.  Our  —  I  suppose  you  refer  to  the  one 
that  winds  in  and  out  among  the  trellis  vines  ? 

Rob.  I  always  think  of  that  as  belonging  espe- 
cially to  you  and  me. 

Olga.     I  often  take  the  air  in  it  alone. 

Rob.     Yes,  but  not  at  night. 

164 


HIS  HELPMATE 


Olga.  In  the  evening  sometimes.  It's  only 
then  that  one  can  appreciate  how  lovely  it  really  is. 

Rob.  What  an  air  of  indescribable  repose  it 
hasl 

Olga  [tenderly].  Hasn't  it?  That's  just 
why  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  visit  us  again 
—  soon.  You'll  be  cheerfuUer  up  at  our  house 
than  here. 

Rob.  Maybe  so.  [Looks  at  her  a  moment, 
then  turns  his  back  to  the  audience.]  Seel  That 
was  where  we  filed  out.  [Ol^a  nods.]  Can 
you  realize  that  all  this  happened  only  a  few  hours 
ago  ?  And  can  you  —  now  at  night  —  picture  to 
your  mind  the  afternoon  sunlight  playing  over 
that  dark  road?  Odd,  indeed!  I  even  seem  to 
hear  the  rumbling  of  the  carriages  1  [Pause.  He 
is  very  nervous  and  talks  disconnectedly.]  You 
are  right.  There  were  a  great  many  friends 
here.  And,  one  must  consider,  all  came  from  the 
city;  that's  quite  a  trip,  you  know.  Did  you  see 
the  wreath  my  students  sent  ? 

Olga.    Yes. 

Rob.  It  was  magnificent,  wasn't  it?  And 
what  expressions  of  sympathy  generally  I  Several 
of  my  colleagues  interrupted  their  vacations  to 
be  present.  It  is  truly  very  —  how  shall  I  put 
it  [hesitates] — amiable  of  them,  don't  you 
think? 

Olga.  Quite  the  customary  thing,  I  should 
say. 

Rob.  To  be  sure  I  But  I  keep  asking  myself 
whether  at  bottom  my  bereavement,  taken  all  in 
all,  is  really  deserving  of  this  widespread  sym- 
pathy—  or  expression  of  sympathy. 

165 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Olga  [quite  shocked^.  How  can  you  think 
that? 

Rob.  Because  I  suifer  so  little.  I  only  know 
that  she  is  no  more.  I  am  conscious  of  the  bare 
fact  with  feelings  so  shockingly  unequivocal  that 
it  tortures  me  to  think  of  it ;  but  within  all  is  icy 
and  transparent  as  the  air  on  winter  dawns. 

Olga.  This  feeling  cannot  last.  The  awak- 
ening pang  will  come  —  and  that  will  be  better  for 
you  in  the  end. 

Rob.  Who  knows  whether  it  will  come?  It 
all  happened  too  long  ago. 

Olga  [surpriset^.  Too  long  ago!  What 
happened  too  long  ago? 

Rob.  The  giving  of  herself  —  ourselves  —  to 
one  another. 

Olga.  Of  course.  But  that  is  what  usually 
happens  in  most  marriages.  [She  goes  toward 
the  balcony  and  suddenly  spies  the  wreath.'] 

Rob.  Last  to  arrive.  It's  from  Dr.  Haus- 
mann. 

Olga.  Ahl  [She  reads  the  card.  Robert 
watches  her  closely.  She  is  uneasy  under  his 
gaze.] 

Olga.     Has  he  arrived  yet  ? 

Rob.  No.  I  telegrapned  him  at  once  to 
Scheveningen,  and  I  would  not  be  surprised  to  see 
him  here  —  today  yet.  If  when  he  arrives  at 
Vienna  he  loses  no  time  — 

Olga.     I'm  sure  he  won't. 

Rob.  Then  he  ought  to  be  here  in  precisely 
one  hour. 

Olga  [with  forced  confidence] .  What  a  great 
blow  for  himl 

1 66 


HIS  HELPMATE 


Rob.  No  doubt.  [Pause,  then  quietly. '\  Be 
candid  with  me,  Olga.  There  is  another  reason 
for  your  coming  here  again  today.  I  read  it  in 
your  manner.     Tell  me,  quite  simply. 

Olga.     It  is  more  difficult  than  I  imagined. 

Rob.  '[impatiently,  but  for  all  that  master  of 
himself}.     Well,  well  — 

Olga.     I  came  to  beg  a  favor  of  you. 

Rob.     If  it's  in  my  power. 

Olga.  Easily.  It  affects  certain  letters  which 
I  wrote  poor  Eveline  and  which,  if  possible,  Fd 
like  to  have  back. 

Rob.     But  why  this  haste  ? 

Olga.  I  thought  that  the  first  step  you  would 
naturally  take  would  be  — 

Rob.    What? 

Olga  [pointing  to  the  escritoire}.  The  very 
one  you  were  about  to  take  when  I  entered.  [In 
a  subdued  tone  of  voice.}  I'd  do  it,  too,  if  one  I 
loved  should  —  die. 

Rob.  [slightly  perturbed} .     Loved  —  loved  — 

Olga.  Then  one  who  was  close  to  me.  It 
helps  to  arouse  In  one's  mind  the  image  of  the 
dead.  [She  speaks  the  following  like  a  passage 
got  by  rote.}  You  see,  my  letters  might  have 
come  to  your  notice  first,  and  that  is  why  I  came. 
There  are  matters  in  them  which  must,  by  no 
means,  be  revealed  to  you;  which  were  intended 
from  one  woman  to  another.  Especially  certain 
letters  I  wrote  two  or  three  years  ago. 

Rob.  Where  are  they?  Do  you  know  where 
they  have  been  put? 

Olga.  If  you'll  only  let  me,  I  shall  have  no 
trouble  in  finding  them. 

167 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Rob.     You  wish  to  look  for  — 

Olga.  It  is  the  simplest  way,  I  think,  since  I 
know  where  they  are.  However,  if  you  wish  you 
can  unlock  the  drawer  and  I  will  tell  you  ex- 
actly — 

Rob.     Never  mind;  here's  the  key. 

Olga.  Thanks.  Pray  don't  regard  me  as  se- 
cretive. 

Rob.     Oh,  no  I 

Olga.  Some  day  I  shall  reveal  all  to  you  —  I 
mean  all  that  Eveline  knew,  even  though  it  be  at 
the  risk  of  forfeiting  your  esteem.  But  thus,  by 
chance,  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  you  discover  them. 

Rob.  I  assure  you,  you  will  always  command 
my  esteem. 

Olga.  Who  knows  ?  You  know  you  have  al- 
ways overestimated  me. 

Rob.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
these  letters  contain  something  unknown  to  me. 
[Pause.}  What's  more,  it  isn't  your  own  secrets 
you  wish  to  preserve. 

Olga  [shrewdly"].     Whose,  then? 

Rob.     The  secrets  of  someone  else. 

Olga.  What  makes  you  think  so?  Eveline 
had  no  secrets  which  you  did  not  share. 

Rob.  I'm  not  inquisitive.  You  may  take  your 
letters. 

Olga  [unlocking  the  drawer  and  searching']. 
Here  they  are!  Yes.  [She  takes  out  a  small 
package  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon,  holds  it  so  that 
Robert  cannot  see.  Finally  she  slyly  tucks  it  un- 
der her  wrap.]  And  now  I  must  go.  Good-by. 
[She  turns  to  go.] 

Rob.     Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  thing  to  glance 

i68 


HIS  HELPMATE 


into  the  other  drawer  as  well  ?  You  know  it  needs 
but  a  hasty  note  to  render  all  your  precautions  use- 
less. 

Olga  [with  less  confidence'] .     How  useless  ? 

Rob.  You  might  have  spared  yourself  all  this 
trouble,  Olga. 

Olga.     What  do  you  mean? 

Rob.  You  above  all,  who  were  familiar  with 
the  relations  between  Eveline  and  myself. 

Olga.  They  were  no  worse  than  such  rela- 
tions ordinarily  are  after  ten  years.  But  I  don't 
see  how  that  concerns  my  letters. 

Rob.  And  do  you  really  believe  that  even  ten 
years  ago  I  cherished  any  illusions?  That  were 
simon  pure  simplidty  when  one  marries  a  woman 
twenty  years  younger  than  oneself.  I  realized 
very  clearly  in  the  beginning  that  at  best  the  fu- 
ture held  but  one  or  two  perfect  years  for  me. 
Yes,  dear  Olga,  I  was  under  no  delusion  regard- 
ing that.  In  my  case  this  talk  of  illusions  falls 
flat.  Life  is  not  long  enough  for  us  to  reject  even 
one  year  of  happiness  when  it  is  offered  to  us. 
And,  let  me  assure  you,  it  is  sufficient  —  at  least 
as  concerns  our  relations  with  women.  I  refer 
naturally  to  the  women  one  adores.  One  soon 
tires  of  them.  In  life  there  are  other  things  which 
have  a  greater  hold  on  men. 

Olga.  Possibly.  But  one  doesn't  always  real- 
ize it. 

Rob.  I  have  never  lost  sight  of  it.  She  was 
never  at  any  time  the  all-in-all  of  my  life  —  never, 
even  during  that  one  year  of  happiness.  In  a 
certain  sense,  I  grant  you,  she  was  more  than  that 
—  the  fragrance,  if  you  will.     But,  as  is  to  be  ex- 

169 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


pected,  the  fragrance  in  time  died  out.  But  all 
this  is  useless.  \_He  speaks  with  more  and  more 
emotion  in  his  voice ,  but  outwardly  gives  the  ap- 
pearance of  calmness. '\  We  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon, we  two,  but  the  memory  of  our  short-lived 
happiness.  And,  take  my  word  for  it,  this  sort 
of  common  memory  severs  more  often  than  it 
binds. 

Olga.     I  can  conceive  of  it  ending  differently. 

Rob.  No  doubt.  But  scarcely  with  a  crea- 
ture of  Eveline's  type.  She  was  cut  out  to  be  a 
mistress ;  not  a  helpmate. 

Olga.  Helpmate  I  That  word's  big  with 
meaning.  How  many  women  do  you  know  who 
are  fit  to  be  helpmates  ? 

Rob.  I  never  asked  her  to  be  one  to  me.  To 
speak  truth,  I  never  felt  lonely.  A  man  who  has 
a  calling  —  I  don't  mean  an  occupation  —  can 
really  never  know  the  pangs  of  loneliness. 

Olga  [dispassionately"].  There  in  a  nutshell 
is  the  great  advantage  you  men  possess  —  I  mean 
men  of  your  cut. 

Rob.  And  when  our  happiness  came  to  an  end 
I  again  took  up  the  thread  of  my  life-work,  con- 
cerning which  she  knew  very  little,  as  you  are 
aware.     I  went  my  way  and  she  went  hers. 

Olga.     No.     It  was  not  so.     Ah,  no ! , 

Rob.  Of  course  it  was  so.  She's  probably 
told  you  more  than  you  are  willing  to  own.  As 
far  as  I  am  concerned  this  guarded  abstraction 
of  her  letters  is  uncalled  for.  There  are  no  sur- 
prises and  no  discoveries  for  me  any  more. 
What  are  you  trying  to  do?  You  would  gladly 
have  me  remain  in  darkness  —  no,  envelope  me 

170 


HIS  HELPMATE 


in  darkness.  I  know  very  well  that  I  lost  her  a 
long  time  ago.  Yes,  a  long  time  ago.  [With 
growing  emotion.^  And  do  you  for  a  moment 
believe  that  because  all  between  us  was  dead,  I 
gulled  myself  into  thinking  she  was  also  cold  to 
the  joy  of  life;  that  she  became  an  old  woman  sim- 
ply because  she  had  drifted  away  from  me  —  or 
I  had  drifted  away  from  her?  I  never  enter- 
tained the  notion. 

Olga.  Really,  Robert,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  to 
account  for  your  conjectures. 

Rob.  I  know  who  wrote  those  letters.  It  was 
not  you.  I  know,  too,  there  is  another  who  de- 
serves to  be  pitied  much  more  deeply  than  I ;  one 
whom  she  loved.  And  it  was  he  who  was  be- 
reaved of  her  today.  No,  not  I;  not  I.  You 
see,  all  this  trouble  was  uncalled  for.  There  can 
be  no  other. 

Olga.     You  are  shockingly  deceived. 

Rob.  Olga,  let  me  beg  you  to  tear  off  the 
mask  at  once.  Otherwise  I  may  be  tempted  to 
read  those  letters  after  all.  [Observing  a  rapid 
movement  of  Olgc^s."]  You  needn't  fear.  I 
won't  do  it.     Let  us  burn  them  before  he  arrives. 

Olga.     Do  you  wish  to  do  that? 

Rob.  Yes.  For  that  was  my  intention  be- 
fore you  came.  Everything  this  escritoire  con- 
tains I  propose  to  throw  into  the  fire  without  ex- 
amination. 

Olga.     No,  I'm  sure  you  would  not  have  done 

Rob.  You  needn't  reproach  yourself  either. 
Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best  that  I  know  everything 
without  having  to  glance  at  the  correspondence. 

'7'  \ 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Thus  there  is  a  complete  understanding  —  and 
that  is  the  single  gift  we  ought  to  ask  of  life. 

Olga  [earnestly'}.  You  might  have  asked  a 
great  deal  more. 

Rob.  Once  —  yes.  And  I  would  not  have 
had  to  ask  in  vain.  But  now?  She  was  young 
and  I  was  old;  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it. 
You  and  I  can  weigh  affairs  of  this  sort  inpar- 
tially  in  the  case  of  others.  Why  not  here?  [A 
locomotive  whistles  in  the  distance.  Olga  starts. 
Pause.} 

Olga.  For  my  sake,  I  beg  you  to  receive  him 
tomorrow. 

Bob.  Why?  Do  I  not  look  calm?  Do  you 
honestly  believe  that  I  —  There  is  just  one  thing 
that  I  must  ask  you  to  do  for  me.  He  must  not 
learn  that  I  know.  If  he  did  he'd  interpret 
every  word  of  mine  in  terms  of  forgiveness  and 
magnanimity.  I  don't  want  that.  It  isn't  true. 
I  have  never  hated  him;  I  do  not  hate  him  now. 
Why,  there's  absolutely  no  ground  for  hate  — 
and  none  for  forgiveness  either.  She  belonged 
to  him.  Pray,  let's  not  lose  sight  of  that.  Let 
us  by  all  means  avoid  getting  confused  by  external 
circumstances.  She  belonged  to  him  —  not  me. 
The  tension  of  their  existence  could  not  have 
lasted  much  longer. 

Olga.  I  implore  you,  Robert,  do  not  receive 
him  tonight. 

Rob.  You  know  very  well  she  wanted  to  leave 
me. 

Olga.     I  ? 

Rob.     Yes,  for  she  confided  in  you. 

Olga.    Oh,  hoi 

172 


HIS  HELPMATE 


Rob.  Then  how  did  you  know  where  those 
letters  were  ? 

Olga.  I  happened  to  come  in  once  while  she 
was  reading  one  aloud.  I  did  not  mean  to  eaves- 
drop, but  — 

Rob.  But  she  had  to  have  a  confidante,  that's 
very  plain;  and  you  could  not  help  being  hers; 
that's  evident  enough.  No.  Matters  could  not 
have  continued  this  way  very  long.  Do  you  think 
I  was  blind  to  the  shame  both  endured  because  of 
their  hypocrisy  —  and  how  they  suffered?  I  was 
longing  for  the  moment  —  yes,  patiently  await- 
ing it  —  when  they  would  nerve  themselves  to 
come  to  me  and  say,  "  Free  us  I  "  Why  didn't 
they  find  the  courage  ?  Why  didn't  I  say  to  them, 
"  You  may  go.  I  don't  want  to  detain  you." 
But  we  were  all  cowardly.  To  me  that's  the  ab- 
surd side  of  life.  We  are  eternally  expecting 
some  outer  force  to  smite  the  shackles  of  the 
intolerable  —  an  unknown  something  —  which 
takes  upon  itself  the  pains  for  our  being  honest 
with  one  another.  And  soon  it  comes,  this  some- 
thing, as  with  us.  [Rumble  of  carriage  wheels 
below.  Brief  silence.  Olga  is  very  much  ex- 
cited.    Robert,  externally  calm,  continues  speak' 

Rob.  And  one  must  admit,  at  any  rate,  it 
provides  a  capital  solution.  [The  carriage 
stops. '\ 

Olga.     You  are  going  to  receive  him? 

Rob.     He  must  not  see  the  letters. 

Olga.  Let  me  go.  I'll  take  them  away  with 
me. 

Kob.     Here,  by  these  stairs  — 

173 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Olga.     I  hear  his  step. 

Rob.  He  must  have  come  through  the  garden 
then.  {^He  takes  the  letters  from  her  and  hastily 
replaces  them  in  the  drawer.]  Too  late.  Dont 
go.  [Footsteps  outside.  Alfred  rushes  in.  He 
wears  a  dark  traveling  suit.  As  he  spies  Olga 
he  is  just  the  least  hit  embarrassed.  Robert 
makes  as  if  to  go  toward  him,  but  stops  in  an  atti- 
tude of  waiting  after  taking  two  steps.  Alfred 
grasps  his  hand,  then  goes  to  Olga  and  offers  her 
his.     A  brief  silence. 1^ 

Alf.  In  my  wildest  dreams  I  did  not  picture 
our\meeting  again  like  this. 

Rob.  You  didn't  stop  over  In  the  city,  did 
you? 

Alf.  No.  I  reckoned  if  I  wanted  to  see  you 
today  —  and  I  couldn't  think  of  putting  it  off. 
[To  Olga.']  Oh,  it's  heartbreaking  I  Heart- 
breaking I  How  did  it  happen?  I  haven't  been 
told  yet.  How?  How?  In  a  word  tell  me. 
[Robert  does  not  reply.] 

Olga.     It  happened  quite  unexpectedly. 

Alf.     Heart  failure? 

Rob.     Yes. 

Alf.     Without  any  previous  symptoms  ? 

Rob.     Without  any  previous  symptoms. 

Alf.     When  and  where? 

Rob.  The  day  before  yesterday,  while  she 
was  taking  a  turn  in  the  garden.  The  gardener 
saw  her  stagger  —  near  the  pond.  From  my 
room  I  heard  his  cry.  When  I  arrived  on  the 
spot  all  was  over. 

Alf.     My  poor  fellow  I     How  you  must  have 

174 


HIS  HELPMATE 


suffered!     I  can't  realize  it  all.     So  young  and 
so  beautiful  I 

Olga.  They  are  favored  by  heaven  who  are 
taken  off  that  way. 

Alf.     That's  no  consolation. 

Rob.  I  suppose  you  got  my  telegram  rather 
late. 

Alf.  Yes;  otherwise  I  might  have  been  here 
earlier.  If  there  were  such  things  as  presenti- 
ments — 

Olga.     But  there  are  none. 

Alf.  Quite  so.  The  day  was  like  any  other. 
Possibly  brighter  and  cheerfuUer  than  usual  — 

Rob.     CheerfuUer  than  usual? 

Alf.  Of  course,  I  only  imagined  so.  We 
were  out  sailing  on  the  water.  After  that  we 
went  for  a  stroll  along  the  beach  in  the  cool  twi- 
light — 

Rob.     We? 

Alf.  Certainly;  quite  a  lot  of  people;  and 
when  I  returned  to  the  hotel,  in  the  dimness  of 
my  room  I  gazed  out  upon  the  sea.  Then  I  got  a 
light  —  and  spied  the  telegram  on  the  table. 
Ah  I  [Pause.  He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hands 
while  Olga  watches  Robert  narrowly.  Robert  is 
gazing  straight  before  him.^ 

Alf.  [removing  his  hand  from  his  eyes'\. 
This  is  her — [chokes'] — room? 

Rob.    Yes. 

Alf.  How  often  have  we  sat  there  on  the 
balcony!  [Turning,  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  the 
cemetery  wall  at  the  end  of  the  street.  Tremu- 
lously.] There?  [Robert  nods.]  In  the  morn- 
ing we  must  visit  her  —  you  and  I. 

175 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


Rob.     You  can  offer  your  wreath  there  your- 
self.    It  has  just  come.     [Pause.'] 

Alf.  And  what  are  your  plans  for  the  imme- 
diate future? 

Rob.     What  do  you  mean? 

Olga.  I've  asked  the  professor  to  spend  as 
much  time  as  he  can  spare  at  the  villa. 

Alf.  In  any  case  he  mustn't  remain  here. 
No,  you  must  not  remain  on  the  spot. 

Rob.  I  have  planned  to  move  to  the  city  early 
in  October.  It  isn't  very  long  until  then.  Be- 
sides, I  shall  glance  into  the  laboratory  once  or 
twice.  The  two  Americans  who  were  here  last 
year  have  been  at  work  since  the  end  of  August. 

Alf.  Yes,  so  you  wrote  me  in  your  last  let- 
ter. But  you  needn't  return  to  the  city  for  that. 
You're  not  going  to  buckle  down  to  work  right 
away,  I  hope. 

Rob.  You're  simply  preposterous,  Alfred  1 
What  else  can  I  do  ?  I  assure  you  I've  no  inclina- 
tion to  anything  but  work. 

Alf.     But  you're  not  fit  for  It  now. 

Rob.  You  are  no  better  than  the  rest  in  your 
advice.  I  feel  myself  perfectly  fit.  Why,  I'm 
just  longing  for  itl 

Alf.  I  understand.  But  this  longing  is  not 
to  be  trusted.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make.  ICor- 
dially.']  Come  away  with  me.  You  have 
granted  me  a  few  days  more  and  I'm  going  to  take 
you  with  me.  What  do  you  say  to  that,  Frau 
Merholm  ? 

Olga.     Not  a  bad  idea,  that. 

Rob.  You  intend  going  away  —  now? 
You  — 

176 


HIS  HELPMATE 


Alf.  Of  course,  I  intend  to  ask  for  a  few  days 
more. 

Rob.     But  where  are  you  going? 

Alf.    To  the  seashore. 

Rob.     Back  again  ? 

Alf.  Yes,  but  with  you.  It  will  do  you  a 
heap  of  good.  Take  my  word  for  it.  Eh,  Frau 
Merholm? 

Olga.     Oh,  of  course. 

Alf.  Now  you  come  along  with  me  to 
Scheveningen  —  I  insist  on  it  —  and  spend  sev- 
eral days  with  us  there. 

Rob.  "Us"?  "Us"?  Then  you  are  not 
alone  ? 

Alf.  Of  course  Vm  alone.  But  there  are 
people  at  Scheveningen  —  who  —  ^stammers'} — 

Rob.     Well?     [Pause.] 

Alf.  I  didn't  wish  to  announce  the  news  until 
a  few  days  yet,  but  since  things  have  combined  in 
such  a  way  —  in  a  word,  I'm  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

Rob.  [quite  coldly}.    Ah  I 

Alf.  It  doesn't  matter  whether  I  announce  it 
today  or  tomorrow,  does  it?  Life  still  flows  on. 
But  it  seems  a  little  strange  that  it  had  to  happen 
just  — 

Rob.     I  congratulate  you ! 

Alf.  Now  you  see  why  I  said  "  with  us  "  a 
moment  ago,  and  you  will  imderstand  now  why  I 
am  impatient  to  return. 

Rob.     Perfectly. 

Alf.  But  please  come  along.  Her  parents 
would  be  most  delighted  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance.    I  spoke  so  much  about  you.    They're  good 

177 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


people,  besides.     As  for  the  girl  —  well,  you'll 
judge  when  you  see  her. 

Rob.  Not  now.  I  may  find  time  later.  \_He 
is  successful  in  maintaining  this  studied  calmness, 
but  not  without  difficulty,]  This  is  quite  a  mad 
notion  of  yours  —  a  trip  to  the  seashore  to  be  in- 
troduced to  your  fiancee.  By  the  by,  how  many 
millions  is  she  worth? 

Alf.  [pained"}.  What  a  question  to  ask  I  I 
give  you  my  word,  I'm  not  the  type  of  man  who 
marries  for  money. 

Rob.     So  it's  a  grande  passion,  eh? 

Alf.  Let's  not  speak  of  it  any  more  today. 
It's  almost  a — [he  almost  says  "sacrilege"']. 

Rob.  Why  not?  "  Life  still  flows  on,"  as  you 
truthfully  remarked.  Let  us  talk  of  the  living. 
How  did  you  make  her  acquaintance  ? 

Alf.     She's  Viennese. 

Rob.     Ah,  now  I  know  all  I 

Alf.     Impossible! 

Rob.  Surely  you  recall  you  once  related  to  me 
the  story  of  your  youthful  student  love  for  a  girl 
with  golden  hair? 

Alf.     What's  that  to  do  with  it? 

Rob.  Well,  a  chance  meeting  after  many 
years,  the  awakening  of  the  old  passion,  and  so  on. 

Alf.  How  well  you  remember  it!  No,  it  is 
not  she.  I  know  my  fiancee  but  two  years,  and  it 
was  for  her  sake  that  I  chose  the  seashore  for  my 
vacation. 

Rob.     And  there  you  fell  in  love  with  her. 

Alf.  Oh,  I  knew  for  ever  so  long  that  I  was 
going  to  make  her  my  wife. 

Rob.     Indeed  I 

178 


HIS  HELPMATE 


Alf.  We've  been  secretly  engaged  one  whole 
year. 

Rob.  And  you  scrupled  to  tell  me  —  us  —  one 
word  of  it?     Oh!  — 

Alf.  There  were  several  things  to  be  taken 
into  consideration.  Chiefly  her  family.  But  we 
were  decided  all  along.  I  might  almost  say  that 
from  the  first  moment  we  have  been  plighted  in 
our  affections. 

Rob.     Two  years? 

Alf.    Yes. 

Rob.     As  long  as  that? 

Alf.    Yes. 

Rob.     And  —  she  ? 

Alf.     [quite  mechanicallyl.     And  she? 

Rob.     And  that  other  —  that  other. 

Alf.     Whom  do  you  mean? 

Rob.  [grasping  his  shoulder  and  pointing  up 
the  street^.     She  —  yonder! 

[Alfred  casts  a  glance  at  OlgaJ] 

Rob.     To  what  end  did  she  serve? 

Alf.  [after  a  pause,  supporting  himself']. 
Why  have  you  been  playing  with  me  all  this  while  ? 
If  you  knew,  why  did  you  continue  to  treat  me  as 
a  friend?  If  you  knew  —  the  law  was  in  your 
hands.  You  could  have  done  with  me  as  you 
chose  —  anything.  But  one  thing  you  had  no 
right  to  do,  and  that  was  to  play  with  me. 

Rob.  I  did  not  play  with  you.  If  I  had  found 
you  broken  and  disconsolate  I  should  have  lifted 
you  from  the  depths  of  sorrow  and  despair;  yes, 
I  should  even  have  visited  her  grave  with  you  if 
I  knew  your  love  lay  there.  But  you  degraded 
her  into  an  instrument  of  your  lust  and  you  have 

179 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


besmirched  with  foulness  and  lies  the  sanctity  of 
this  house.  That  is  what  is  so  repulsive,  and  that 
is  why  I'm  going  to  kick  you  out  — 

Alf.     Calm  yourself;  I  may  be  able  to  explain. 

Rob.  Clear  out  I  Clear  out  I  Clear  outl 
\^Alfred  goes.'\ 

Rob.  You  wanted  to  spare  me  this.  Now  I 
understand.  It  was  well  for  her  that  she  died 
without  an  inkling  —  of  what  she  really  meant  to 
him. 

Olga  [turning  to  him'}.     Without  an  inkling? 

Rob.     What  do  you  mean? 

Olga  [reflecting  a  moment'} .     She  —  knew  all. 

Rob.     Whatl     What!     She  — 

Olga.  Knew  what  she  was  to  him.  Don't 
you  grasp  it  yet?  He  neither  betrayed  nor  de- 
graded her,  and  she  was  resigned  to  his  marrying 
long  ago  as  a  matter  of  course.  When  he  wrote 
her  the  news  she  wept  as  little  over  his  loss  —  as 
he  over  hers.  They  would  never  have  come  to 
you  for  their  freedom  because  the  freedom  they 
coveted  they  possessed  in  full. 

Rob.  She  knew  it?  And  you,  you  who  are 
anxious  to  conceal  the  contents  of  those  letters, 
answer  — 

Olga.  Am  I  not  giving  you  back  your  free- 
dom by  doing  so?  For  years  and  years  you  suf- 
fered at  the  hands  of  this  woman  plunging  from 
one  delusion  to  another,  so  that  you  might  con- 
tinue loving  her  and  consequently  suffering  more. 
And  now,  when  all  is  over,  you  wish  to  torture 
yourself  still  further  for  the  sake  of  a  calamity 
which  is  purely  chimerical,  over  which  this  woman 
was  incapable  of  suffering.     Why?     Because  her 

1 80 


HIS  HELPMATE 


outlook  on  life  was  so  frivolous.  Oh,  you  can 
scarcely  understand. 

Rob.  And  to  think  I  should  only  realize  it  to- 
day! Now  I  Why  didn't  you,  a  witness  of  the 
whole  affair,  rouse  me  out  of  my  ridiculous  short- 
sightedness? Why  didn't  I  know  it  a  year  ago? 
No,  three  days  ago? 

Olga.  I  trembled  at  your  awakening,  as  you 
yourself  would  have  done  in  my  place.  It  was 
well  that  you  remained  ignorant  of  the  whole  af- 
fair until  today. 

Rob.  Does  it  make  any  difference  because  she 
is  dead? 

Olga.  No  difference ;  but  it  is  clear  as  it  could 
never  have  been  as  long  as  she  was  alive.  For 
her  very  existence,  her  very  smile  would  have  lent 
importance  to  this  mere  trumpery  escapade.  You 
could  never  have  felt  what  you  must  feel  today  — 
anger,  for  the  simple  reason  that  she  is  beyond 
your  anger.  And  it  is  freedom  that  rends  the  veil 
from  your  eyes.  How  removed,  how  infinitely  re- 
moved from  you,  this  woman  lived  her  life,  who, 
as  chance  would  have  it,  breathed  her  last  in  this 
house.     [She  goes.l 

[Robert  is  silent  for  a  space,  then  locks  the 
escritoire,  rises,  goes  to  the  door  and  calls. "i 

Rob.     Franz  I 

Franz.    Yes,  sir! 

Rob.  I  leave  tomorrow.  Get  mv  thmgs 
ready  and  order  a  carriage  for  seven  o'clock. 

Franz.    Very  good,  sir.  , 

Rob.  [after  a  brief  pause'].  I'll  give  you  fur- 
ther instructions  tomorrow.  You  may  go  to  bed. 
[As  Franz  lingers'] :     Never  mind;  I'll  lock  the 

i8i 


COMEDIES  OF  WORDS 


room  up  myself.     It  is  to  stay  shut  until  I  return. 

Franz.     Very  well,  sir. 

Rob.     Good  night. 

Franz.     Good  night,  sir. 

[Robert  locks  the  door  at  once,  then  goes  to* 
ward  the  balcony.  As  he  is  about  to  lock  up  he 
spies  the  wreath.  He  takes  it  and  returns  to  the 
room  with  it  and  places  it  on  the  escritoire.  Then, 
with  the  light  in  his  hand,  he  goes  to  the  door, 
left.  On  the  threshold  he  pauses  and  turns,  tak- 
ing in  the  whole  room  with  his  eyes.  He  breathes 
deeply,  as  if  relieved  of  a  burden,  then  goes  out. 
The  dark  room  remains  empty  for  a  while,  then 


[Curtain.] 


THE   END 


182 


A   SELECTED    LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 


PUBLISHED  BY 

STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 

CINCINNATI 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


Four  Plays  of  the  Free  Theater 

Francois  de  CureFs  The  Fossils 

Jean  JuUien's  The  Serenade 

Georges  de  Porto-Riche's 

Francoise*  Luck 

Georges  Ancey's  The  Dupe 

Translated  ivith  an  introduction  on  Antoine  and  Theatre 
Libre  by  BARRETT  H.  CLARK.  Preface  by  BRIEUX,  of  the 
French  Academy,  and  a  Sonnet  by  EDMOND  ROSTAND. 

The  Review  of  Reviews  says: 

"A  lengthy  introduction,  which  is  a  gem  of  con- 
densed information." 

H.  L.  Menckea  (in  the  Smart  Set)  says: 

"Here  we  have,  not  only  skilful  playwriting,  but 
also  sound  literature." 

Brander  Matthews  says: 

"The  book  is  welcome  to  all  students  of  the  modern 
stage.  It  contains  the  fullest  account  of  the  activities 
of  Antoine's  Free  Theater  to  be  found  anywhere — 
even  in  French." 

The  Chicago  Tribune  says: 

"Mr.  Clark's  translations,  with  their  accurate  and 
comprehensive  prefaces,  are  necessary  to  anyone  in- 
terested in  modern  drama  ...  If  the  American  reader 
will  forget  Yankee  notions  of  morality  ...  if  the 
reader  will  assume  the  French  point  of  view,  this  book 
will  prove  a  rarely  valuable  experience.  Mr.  Clark 
has  done  this  important  task  excellently." 

Handsomely  Bound.    i2mo.    Cloth Net,  $1.50 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Contemporary  French  Dramatists 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

In  "Contemporary  French  Dramatists"  Mr.  Barrett  H. 
Clark,  author  of  "The  Continental  Drama  of  Today," 
"The  British  and  American  Drama  of  Today,"  translator 
of  "Four  Plays  of  the  Free  Theater,"  and  of  various  plays 
of  Donnay,  Hervieu,  Lemaitre,  Sardou,  Lavedan,  etc.,  has 
contributed  the  first  collection  of  studies  on  the  modern 
French  theater.  Mr.  Clark  takes  up  the  chief  dramatists 
of  France  beginning  ivith  the  Theatre  Libre:  Curel, 
Brieux,  Hervieu,  Lemaitre,  Lavedan,  Donnay,  Porto-Riche, 
Rostand,  Bataille,  Bernstein,  Cafus,  Flers,  and  Caillavet, 
The  book  contains  numerous  quotations  from  the  chief  reP' 
resentative  plays  of  each  dramatist,  a  separate  chapter  on 
"Characteristics"  and  the  most  complete  bibliography  to 
be  found  anywhere. 

This  book  gives  a  study  of  contemporary  drama  in 
France  which  has  been  more  neglected  than  any  other 
European  country. 

Ittdependeat,  New  York: 

"Almost  indispensable  to  the  student  of  the  theater." 

Boston  Transcript: 

"  Mr.  Clark's  method  of  analyzing  the  works  of  the 
Playwrights  selected  is  simple  and  helpfuL  •  •  •  As 
a  manual  for  reference  or  story,  'Contemporary  French 
Dramatists,'  with  its  added  bibliographical  material, 
will  serve  well  its  purpose." 

Uniform  vnth  FOUR  PLAYS.    Handsomely  bound. 

Cloth    Net,  $1.50 

^  Maroon  Turkey  Morocco Net,  $SM) 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Antigone  of  Sophocles 

By  PROF.  JOSEPH  EDWARD  HARRY 


An  acting  version  of  this  most  perfect  of  all  dramas. 
A  scholarly  <work  in  readable  English.  Especiallly 
adaptable  for  Colleges,  Dramatic  Societies,  etc. 

Post  Express,  Rochester: 

"He  has  done  his  work  well."  "Professor  Harry 
has  translated  with  a  virile  force  that  is  almost  Shake- 
spearean." "The  difficult  task  of  rendering  the 
choruses  into  English  lyrical  verse  has  been  very  cred- 
itably accomplished." 

Argonaut,  San  Francisco: 

"Professor  Harry  is  a  competent  translator  not 
only  because  of  his  classical  knowledge,  but  also  be- 
cause of  a  certain  enthusiastic  sympathy  that  shows 
itself  in  an  unfailing  choice  of  words  and  expression." 

North  American,  Philadelphia: 

"Professor  Harry,  teacher  of  Greek  in  the  Cincin- 
nati University,  has  written  a  new  metrical  transla- 
tion of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles.  The  translation 
is  of  fine  dramatic  quality." 

Oregonian,  Portland: 

"A  splendidly  executed  translation  of  the  celebrated 
Greek  tragedy." 

Herald,  Boston: 

"Scholars  will  not  need  to  be  urged  to  read  this 
noteworthy  piece  of  literary  work,  and  we  hope  that 
many  others  who  have  no  special  scholarly  interest 
will  be  led  to  its  perusal." 

8vo.  cloth.    Dignified  binding Net,  $1.00 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


A  Few  Critical  Reviews  of 

George   Bernard  Shaw 

His  Life  and  Works 
A  Critical  Biography  (Authorized) 
By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.,  Ph.D. 
The  Dial: 

"In  over  five  hundred  pages,  with  an  energy  and 
carefulness   and   sjonpathy   which   deserve   high   com- 
mendation,  Dr.   Henderson   has   presented  his   subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles." 
The  Bookman: 

"A  more  entertaining  narrative,  whether  in  biog- 
raphy or  fiction,  has  not  appeared  in  recent  years." 
The  Independent: 

"Whatever  George  Bernard  Shaw  may  think  of  his 
Biography  the  rest  of  the  world  will  probably  agree 
that  Dr.  Henderson  has  done  a  good  job." 
Boston  Transcript: 

"There  is  no  exaggeration  in  saying  it  is  one  of  the 
most  entertaining  biographies  of  these  opening  years 
of  the  Twentieth  Century." 
Bernard  Shaw: 

"You  are  a  genius,  because  you  are  somehow  sus- 
ceptible  to   the   really   significant    and    differentiating 
traits  and  utterances  of  your  subject." 
Maurice  Maeterlinck: 

"You  have  written  one  of  the  most  sagacious,  most 
acute  and  most  penetrating  essays  in  the  whole  mod- 
ern moment." 
Edwin  Markliam: 

"He  stands  to-day  as  the  chief   literary  critic  of 
the  South,  and  in  the  very  forefront  of  the  critics  of 
the  nation." 
William  Lyon  Phelps: 

"Your  critical  biography  of  Shaw  is  a  really  great 
work." 
Richard  Burton: 

"In  over  five  hundred  pages,  with  an  energy  and 
carefulness  and  S3rmpathy  which  deserves  high  com- 
mendation. Dr.  Henderson  has  presented  his  subject 
from  all  conceivable  angles.  •  ♦  •  Intensely  interest- 
ing *  *  *  sound  and  brilliant,  full  of  keen  insight  and 
happy  turns  of  statement.  •  •  •  This  service  Professor 
Henderson's  book  does  perform;  and  I  incline  to  call  it 
a  great  one." 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Short  Plays 

By  MARY  MAC  MILLAN 

To  fill  a  long-felt  want.    All  have  been  successfully 
presented.    Suitable   for    Women's    Clubs,    Girls'   Schools, 
etc.     While   elaborate   enough   for   big  presentation,  they 
may  be  given  very  simply. 
Review  of  Reviews: 

"Mary  MacMillan  oflfers  'Short  Plays,'  a  collec- 
tion of  pleasant  one  to  three-act  plays  for  women's 
clubs,  girls'  schools,  and  home  parlor  production. 
Some  are  pure  comedies,  others  gentle  satires  on 
•women's  faults  and  foibles.  'The  Futurists,'  a  skit 
on  a  woman's  club  in  the  year  1882,  is  highly  amus- 
ing. 'Entr'  Act'  is  a  charming  trifle  that  brings  two 
quarreling  lovers  together  through  a  ridiculous  pri- 
vate theatrical.  'The  Ring'  carries  us  gracefully  back 
to  the  days  of  Shakespeare;  and  'The  Shadowed  Star,' 
the  best  of  the  collection,  is  a  Christmas  Eve  tragedy. 
The  Star  is  shadowed  by  our  thoughtless  inhumanity 
to  those  who  serve  us  and  our  forgetfulness  of  the 
needy.  The  Old  Woman,  gone  daft,  who  babbles  in 
a  kind  of  mongrel  Kiltartan,  of  the  Shepherds,  the 
Blessed  Babe,  of  the  Fairies,  rowan  berries,  roses  and 
dancing,  while  her  daughter  dies  on  Christmas  Eve,  is 
a  splendid  characterization." 
Boston  Transcript: 

"Those  who  consigned  the  writer  of  these  plays  to 
solitude  and  prison  fare  evidently  knew  that  'needs 
must'  is  a  sharp  stimulus  to  high  powers.  If  we  find 
humor,  gay  or  rich,  if  we  find  brilliant  wit;  if  we 
find  constructive  ability  joined  with  dialogue  which 
moves  like  an  arrow;  if  we  find  delicate  and  keen 
characterization,  with  a  touch  of  genius  in  the  choice 
of  names;  if  we  find  poetic  power  which  moves  on 
easy  wing — the  gentle  jailers  of  the  writer  are  justi- 
fied, and  the  gentle  reader  thanks  their  severity." 

Sait  Lake  Tribune: 

"The  Plays  are  ten  in  number,  all  of  goodly  length. 
We  prophesy  great  things  for  this  gifted  dramatist." 

Bookseller f  News  Dealer  &.  Stationer: 

"The   dialogue  is  permeated  with   graceful   satire, 
snatches  of  wit,   picturesque  phraseology,  and  tender, 
often  exquisite,  expressions  of  sentiment." 
Handsomely  Bound.     J2mo.     Cloth Net,  $1.50 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


a 


European  Dramatists'' 


By  ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON 

Author  of  "George  Bernard  Shaw:  His  Life  and  Works." 

In  the  present  work  the  famous  dramatic  critic  and 
biographer  of  Shofva  has  considered  six  representative 
dramatists  outside  of  the  United  States,  some  living,  some 
dead — Strindberg,  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Wilde,  Shaw  and 
Barker. 

Velma  Swanston  Howard  says: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  appraisal  of  Strindberg  is  cer- 
tainly the  fairest,  kindest  and  most  impersonal  that 
I  have  yet  seen.  The  author  has  that  rare  combina- 
tion of  intellectual  power  and  spiritual  insight  which 
casts  a  clear,  strong  light  upon  all  subjects  under  his 
treatment." 

Baltimore  Evening  Sun: 

"Prof.  Henderson's  criticism  is  not  only  notable  for 
its    understanding   and    good   sense,   but   also   for   the 
extraordinary  range  and  accuracy  of  its  information." 
Jeanette  L.  Gilder,  in  the  Cliicago  Tribune: 

"Henderson  is  a  writer  who  throws  new  light  on 
old  subjects." 
Cliicago  Record  Herald: 

"His  essays  in  interpretation  are  welcome.  Mr. 
Henderson  has  a  catholic  spirit  and  writes  without 
parochial  prejudice — a  thing  deplorably  rare  among 
American  critics  of  the  present  day.  *  •  •  One  finds 
that  one  agrees  with  Mr.  Henderson's  main  conten- 
tions and  is  eager  to  break  a  lance  with  him  about 
minor  points,  which  is  only  a  way  of  saying  that  he  is 
stimulating,  that  he  strikes  sparks.  He  knows  his  age 
thoroughly  and  lives  in  it  with  eager  sympathy  and 
understanding." 

Providence  Journal: 

"Henderson  has  done  his  work,  within  its  obvious 
limitations,  in  an  exceedingly  competent  manner.  He 
has  the  happy  faculty  of  making  his  biographical 
treatment  interesting,  combining  the  personal  facts  and 
a  fairly  clear  and  entertaining  portrait  of  the  indi- 
vidual with  intelligent  critical  comment  on  his  artistic 
work." 
Photogravure  frontispiece,  handsomely  printed  and 
bound,  large  lamo Net,  $2joo 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


At  Last 

You  May  Understand 

G,  B,  S, 

Perhaps  once  in  a  generation  a  figure  of  commanding 
greatness  appears,  one  through  whose  life  the  history  of 
his  time  may  be  read.  There  is  but  one  such  man  to- 
day. 

George  Bernard  Shaw 

HIS  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

A  CRITICAL  BIOGRAPHY  (Authorized) 

By 

ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON,  M.A.Ph.D. 

Is  virtually  the  story  of  the  social,  economic  and 
aesthetic  life  of  the  last  twenty-five  years.  It  it  a  tjrm- 
pathetic,  yet  independent  interpretation  of  the  most  po- 
tent individual  force  in  society.  Cultivated  America  will 
find  here  the  key  to  all  that  is  baffling  and  elusive  in 
Shaw;  it  is  a  cinematographic  picture  of  his  mind  with  a 
background  disclosing  all  the  formative  influences  that 
combined  to  produce  this  universal  genius. 

The  press  of  the  world  has  united  in  its  prtdse;  let  us 
send  you  some  of  the  comments.  It  is  a  large  demy^  8vo 
volume  cloth,  gilt  top,  628  pages,  with  35  full  page  illus- 
trations in  color,  photogravure  and  halftone  and  numerous 
pictures  in  the  text. 

$SM>  Net 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


Raster 


(A  Play  in  Three  Acts) 
AND  STORIES  BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized  translation  by  Velma  Sivanston  Hovtard. 
In  this  work  the  author  reveals  a  broad  tolerance,  a  rare 
poetic  tenderness  augmented  by  an  almost  divine  under- 
standing of  human  frailties  as  marking  certain  natural 
stages  in  evolution  of  the  soul. 
Louisville  Courier-Jouraal: 

Here  is  a  major  key  of  cheerfulnrss  and  idealism 
— a  relief  to  a  reader  who  has  passed  through  some 
of  the  author's  morbid  pages.  *  *  *  Some  critics  find 
in  this  play  (Easter)  less  of  the  thrust  of  a  distinctive 
art  than  is  found  in  the  author's  more  lugubrious 
dramas.  There  is  indeed  less  sting  in  it  Neverthe- 
less it  has  a  nobler  tone.  It  more  ably  fulfills  the 
purpose  of  good  drama — the  chastening  of  the  spec- 
tators' hearts  through  their  participation  in  the  suf- 
fering of  the  dramatic  personages.  There  is  in  the 
play  a  mystical  exaltation,  a  belief  and  trust  in  good 
and  its  power  to  embrace  all  in  its  beneficence,  to  bring 
all  confusion  to  harmony. 
The  Nation: 

Those  who  like  the  variety  of  sjonbolism  which 
Maeterlinck  has  often  employed — most  notably  in  the 
"Bluebird" — will  turn  with  pleasure  to  the  short  stories 
of  Strindberg  which  Mrs.  Howard  has  included  in  her 
volume.  •  •  ♦  They  are  one  and  all  diverting  on  ac- 
count of  the  author's  facility  in  dealing  with  fanciful 
details. 
Bookseller: 

"Easter"  is  a  play  of  six  characters  illustrative  of 
human  frailties  and  the  effect  of  the  divine  power 
of  tolerance  and  charity.  ♦  *  *  There  is  a  symbolism, 
a  poetic  quality,  a  spiritual  insight  in  the  author's 
work  that  make  a  direct  appeal  to  the  cultured.  *  *  * 
The  Dial: 

One  play  from  his    (Strindberg's)    third,  or  sjrm- 

bolistic  period  stands  almost  alone.    This  is  "Easter." 

There    is    a    sweet,    sane,    life-giving   spirit    about    it. 

Photogravure    frontispiece    of    Strindberg    etched    by 

Zorn.    Also,  a  reproduction  of  Velma  Sioanston  Howard's 

authorization. 

Handsomely  bound.    Gilt  top Net,  $1.50 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


On   the   Seaboard 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

The   Author's   greatest    psychological   novel.    Author- 
ized Translation  by  Elizabeth  Clarke  fFestergren. 
AmericaU'Seandlnavian  Review: 

"The  descriptien  of  Syredish  life  and  Swedish  scen- 
ery makes  one  positively  homesick   for  the   Skargard 
and  its  moods. 
Worcester  Evening  Gazette: 

"Classes  in  Psychology  In  colleges,  and  Medical  stu- 
dents considering  Pathology  would  derive  much  infor- 
mation from  the  observations  and  reflections  of  the 
commissioner  who  holds  the  front  of  the  stage  whereon 
are  presented  sciences  as  new  to  the  readers  of  to-day 
as  were  those  which  Frederick  Bremer  unfolded  to  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  critics  and  observers  in  this 
first  quarter  of  the  Twentieth  Century." 
Detroit  Tribune: 

"Hans  Land  pronounced  this  novel  to  be  the  only 
work  of  art  in  the  domain  of  Nietzschean  morals  yet 
written  which  is  destined  to  endure." 
Cincinnati  Tlmes'Star: 

"It  requires  a  book  such  as  'On  the  Seaboard'  to 
show  just  how  profound  an  intellect  was  housed  in  the 
frame  of  this  great  Swedish  writer." 
New  Haven  Leader: 

"His  delineations  are  photographical  exactness  with- 
out retouching,  and  bear  always  a  strong  reflection  of 
his  personality." 
Indianapolis  News: 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  built  and  conceived  and 
holds  the  interest  tight." 
American  Review  of  Reviews: 

"This  version  is  characterized  by  the  fortunate  use 
of  idiom,  a  delicacy  in  the  choice  of  words,  and  great 
beauty  in  the  rendering  of  descriptive  passages,  the 
translation  itself  often  attaininor  the  melody  of  poetry 
•  ♦  *  You  may  read  and  re-read  it,  and  every  read- 
ing will  fascinate  the  mind  from  a  fresh  angle." 
South  Atlantic  Quarterly: 

"Only  a  most  unusual  man,  a  genius,  could  have 
written  this  book,  and  it  is  distinctly  worth  reading." 

Handsomely   bound,   uniform    with   Lucky   Pehr   and 
Easter  Net,  $1^$ 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


The  Gift 

A  Poetic  Drama 
By  MARGARET  DOUGLAS  ROGERS 

A  dramatic  poem  in  two  acts,  treating  in  altogether 
new  fashion  the  world  old  story  of  Pandora,  the  first 
vtfoman. 

New  Haven  Times  Leader: 

"Well  written  and  attractive." 
Evangelical  Messenger: 

"A  very  beautifully  written  portrayal   of  the  old 
story  of  Pandora." 
Rochester  Post  Dispatch: 

"There  is  much  poetic  feeling  in  the  treatment  of 
the  subject." 
Grand  Rapids  Herald: 

"The    Gift,    dealing    with    this    ever    interesting 
m3rthological  story,  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  dramas 
of  the  day." 
St,  Xavier  Calendar: 

"The  story  of  Pandora  is  so  set  down  as  to  bring 
out    its   stage    possibilities.     Told   by   Mrs.    Rogers   in 
exquisite  language." 
Salt  Lake  Tribune: 

"The  tale  is  charmingly  wrought  and  has  possibil- 
ities as  a  simple  dramatic  production,  as  well  as  being 
a  delightful  morsel  of  light  reading." 
Cincinnati  Enquirer: 

"The  love  story  is  delightfully  told  and  the  dra- 
matic action  of  the  play  is  swift  and  strong." 
Buffalo  Express: 

"It  is  a  delightful  bit  of  fancy  with  a  dramatic  and 
poetic  setting." 
Boston  Woman's  Journal: 

"Epimetheus  and  Pandora  and  her  box  are  charm- 
ingly presented." 
Worcester  Gazette: 

"It  is  absolutely  refreshing  to  find  a  writer  willing 
to  risk  a  venture  harking  back  to  the  times  of  the 
Muses  and  the  other  worthies  of  mythological  fame. 
•  *  *  The  story  of  Pandora's  box  told  in  verse  by  a 
woman.  It  may  be  said  it  could  not  have  been  better 
written  had  a  representative  of  the  one  who  only  as- 
sisted at  the  opening  been  responsible  for  the  play." 
Handsomely  bound  silk  cloth Net,  $i.oo    I 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Lucky  Pehr 

By  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Authorized  Translation  by  Velma  Stoanston  Howard, 
An  allegorical  drama  in  five  acts.    Compared  favorably 
to   Same's   "Peter   Pan"   and   Maeterlincl^s   "The   Blue 
Bird." 
I^ocbester  Post  Express: 

Strindberg  has  written  many  plays  which  might  be 
described  as  realistic  nightmares.  But  this  remark  doei 
not  apply  to  "Lucky  Pehr."  *  *  •  This  drama  is  one 
of  the  most  favorable  specimens  of  Strindberg's 
genius. 
New  York  World: 

"Pehr"  is  lucky  because,  having  tested  all  things^ 
he  finds  that  only  love  and  duty  are  true. 
New  York  Times: 

"Lucky  Pehr"  clothes  cjrnicism  in  real  entertain- 
ment instead  of  in  gloom.  And  it  has  its  surprises. 
Can  this  be  August  Strindberg,  who  ends  his  drama 
so  sweetly  on  the  note  of  the  woman-soul,  leading  up- 
ward and  on? 

Worcester  Gazette: 

From  a  city  of  Ohio  comes  this  product  of  Swedish 
fancy  in  most  attractive  attire,  attesting  that  the  pos- 
sibilities of  dramatic  art  have  not  entirely  ceased  in 
this  age  of  vaudeville  and  moving  pictures.  A  great 
sermon  in  altruism  is  preached  in  these  pages,  which 
we  would  that  millions  might  see  and  hear.  To  those 
who  think  or  would  like  to  think,  "Lucky  Pehr"  yrill 
prove  a  most  readable  book.  *  •  •  An  allegory,  it  is 
true,  but  so  are  ^sop's  Fables,  the  Parables  of  the 
Scriptures  and  many  others  of  the  most  effective  les- 
sons ever  given. 

Boston  Qlobe: 

A  popular  drama.  *  *  *  There  is  no  doubt  about 
the  book  being  a  delightful  companion  in  the  library. 
In  charm  of  fancy  and  grace  of  imagery  the  story  may 
not  be  unfairly  classed  with  "The  Blue  Bird"  and 
"Peter  Pan." 
Photogravure    frontispiece    of    Strindberg    etched    by 

Zorn.    Also,  a  reproduction  of  Velma  Swanston  Howard's 

authorization. 

Handsomely  bound.     Gilt  top Net,  $1.50 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


Plays  and  Players 

Leaves  from  a  Critic's  Scrapbook 

BY  WALTER  PRICHARD  EATON 
PREFACE  BY  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 
A  new  volume  of  criticisms  of  plays  and  papers  on  act- 
ing, play-making,  and  other  dramatic  problems,  by  Wal- 
ter Prichard  Eaton,  dramatic  critic,  and  author  of  "  The 
American  Stage  of  To-day,"  "At  the  New  Theater  and 
Others,"  "Idyl  of  the  Twin  Fires,"  etc  The  new 
volume  begins  with  plays  produced  as  far  back  as  1910, 
and  brings  the  record  down  to  the  current  year.  One  sec- 
tion is  devoted  to  American  plays,  one  to  foreign  plays 
acted  on  our  stage,  one  to  various  revivals  of  Shakes- 
peare. These  sections  form  a  record  of  the  important 
activities  of  the  American  theater  for  the  past  six  years, 
and  constitute  about  half  of  the  volume.  The  remainder 
of  the  book  is  given  over  to  various  discussions  of  the 
actor's  art,  of  play  construction,  of  the  new  stage  craft, 
of  new  movements  in  our  theater,  such  as  the  Washington 
Square  Players,  and  several  lighter  essays  in  the  satiric 
vein  which  characterized  the  author's  work  when  he  was 
the  dramatic  critic  of  the  New  York  San.  Unlike  most 
volumes  of  criticisms,  this  one  is  illustrated,  the  pictures  of 
the  productions  described  in  the  text  furnishing  an  ad- 
ditional historical  record.  At  a  time  when  the  drama  is 
regaining  its  lost  position  of  literary  dignity  it  is  partic- 
ularly fitting  that  dignified  and  intelligent  criticism  and 
discussion  should  also  find  accompanying  publication. 
Toronto  Saturday  Night: 

Mr.  Eaton  writes  well  and  with  dignity  and  inde- 
pendence.   His  book  should  find  favor  with  the  more 
serious  students  of  the  Drama  of  the  Day. 
Detroit  Free  Press: 

This  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  also  valu- 
able books  on  the  modern  drama  that  we  have 
encountered  in  that  period  popularly  referred  to  as 
"a  dog's  age."  Mr.  Eaton  is  a  competent  and  well- 
esteemed  critic.  The  book  is  a  record  of  the  activ- 
ities of  the  American  stage  since  1910,  down  to  the 
present.  Mr.  Eaton  succinctly  restores  the  play  to 
the  memory,  revisualizes  the  actors,  and  puts  the 
kernel  of  it  into  a  nutshell  for  us  to  ponder  over  and 
by  which  to  correct  our  impressions. 
Large  l2mo.  About  420  pages,  10  full-page  illustra- 
tions on  Cameo  Paper  and  End  Papers Net  $2.00 

Gilt  top.    J4  Maroon  Turkey  Morocco Net    6.50 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


Comedies  of  Words 
and  Other  Plays 

BY  ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 
TRANSLATED  BY  PIERRE  LOVING 


The  contents  are 


"  The  Hour  of  Recognition  " 

"  Great  Scenes  " 

"  The  Festivai  of  Bacclias  " 

*'  His  Helpmate  '* 

"  Literature:* 


In  his  "  Comedies  of  Words,"  Arthur  Schnitzler,  the 
great  Austrian  Dramatist,  has  penetrated  to  newer  and 
profounder  regions  of  human  psychology.  According  to 
Schnitzler,  the  keenly  compelling  problems  of  earth  are: 
the  adjustment  of  a  man  to  one  woman,  a  woman  to  one 
man,  the  children  to  their  parents,  the  artist  to  life,  the 
individual  to  his  most  cherished  beliefs,  and  how  can  we 
accomplish  this  adjustment  when,  try  as  we  please,  there 
is  a  destiny  which  sweeps  our  little  plans  away  like  help- 
less chessmen  from  the  board?  Since  the  creation  of  An- 
atol,  that  delightful  toy  philosopher,  so  popular  in  almost 
every  theater  ol  the  world,  the  great  Physician-Dramatist 
has  pushed  on  both  as  World-Dramatist  and  reconnoiterer 
beyond  the  misty  frontiers  of  man's  conscious  existence. 
He  has  attempted  in  an  artistic  way  to  get  beneath  what 
Freud  calls  the  "  Psychic  Censor "  which  edits  all  our 
suppressed  desires.  Reading  Schnitzler  is  like  going  to 
school  to  Life  itself! 

Bound  uniform  <with  the  S  &  K  Dramatic  Series,  Net  $1.50 


STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


The  Hamlet  Problem  and  Its  Solution 

By  EMERSON  VENABLE 

The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  has  never  been  adequately  in- 
terpreted. Tivo  hundred  years  of  critical  discussion  has 
not  sufficed  to  reconcile  conflicting  impressions  regarding 
the  scope  of  Shakespeare^ s  design  in  this,  the  first  of  his 
great  philosophic  tragedies.  We  believe  that  all  those 
students  who  are  interested  in  the  study  of  Shakespeare 
tvill  find  this  volume  of  great  value. 
The  Louisville  CouriermJouraal: 

"Mr.  Vcnable's  Hamlet  is  a  'protagonist  of  a  drama 
of  triumphant  moral  achievement.'  He  rises  through 
the  play  from  an  elected  agent  of  vengeance  to  a 
man  gravely  impressed  with  'an  imperative  sense  of 
moral  obligation,  tragic  in  its  depth,  felt  toward  the 
world.' " 
E.  H.  Sothern: 

"Your  ideas  of  Hamlet  so  entirely  agree  with  my 
own  that  the  book  has  been  a  real  delight  to  me.  I 
have  always  had  exactly  this  feeling  about  the  char- 
acter of  Hamlet.  I  think  you  have  wiped  away  a 
great  many  cobwebs,  and  I  believe  your  book  will 
prove  to  be  most  convincing  to  many  people  who  may 
yet  be  a  trifle  in  the  dark." 
Ttie  Book  News  Moatbly: 

"Mr.  Venable  is  the  latest  critic  to  apply  himself 
to  the  'Hamlet'  problem,  and  he  offers  a  solution  in 
an  admirably  written  little  book  which  is  sure  to  at- 
tract readers.  Undeterred  by  the  formidable  names 
of  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  Mr.  Venable  pronounces  un- 
tenable the  theories  which  those  great  authors  pro- 
pounded to  account  for  the  extraordinary  figure  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark.  •  •  *  Mr.  Venable  looks  in 
another  direction  for  the  solution  of  the  problem. 
♦  •  •  The  solution  offered  by  the  author  is  just  the 
reverse  of  that  proposed  by  Goethe.  ♦  *  *  From  Mr. 
Venable's  viewpoint  the  key  to  'Hamlet'  is  found  in 
the  famous  soliloquies,  and  his  book  is  based  upon 
a  close  study  of  those  utterances  which  bring  us  with- 
in the  portals  of  the  soul  of  the  real  Hamlet.  The 
reader  with  an  open  mind  will  find  in  Mr.  Venable  a 
writer  whose  breadth  of  view  and  searching  thought 
gives  weight  to  this  competent  study  of  the  most  inter- 
esting of  Shakespearean  problems." 
l6mo.    Silk  cloth Net,  $i.oo 


DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 


The  Truth 

About  The  Theater 


Anonymous 


Precisely  what  the  title  indicates  —  facts  as  they  are, 
plain  and  unmistakable  without  veneer  of  any  sort  It 
goes  directly  to  the  heart  of  the  whole  matter.  Behind  the 
writer  of  it  —  who  is  one  of  the  best  known  theatrical 
men  in  New  York  —  are  long  years  of  experience.  He 
recites  what  he  knows,  what  he  has  seen,  and  his  quiet, 
calm,  authoritative  account  of  conditions  as  they  are  is 
without  adornment,  excuse  or  exaggeration.  It  is  in- 
tended to  be  helpful  to  those  who  want  the  facts,  and  for 
them  it  will  prove  of  immeasurable  value. 

"The  Truth  About  the  Theater,"  in  brief,  lifts  the 
curtain  on  the  American  stage.  It  leaves  no  phase  of  the 
subject  untouched.  To  those  who  are  ambitious  to  serve 
the  theater,  either  as  players  or  as  playwrights,  or,  again, 
in  some  managerial  capacity,  the  book  is  invaluable.  To 
those,  too,  who  would  know  more  about  the  theater  that 
they  may  come  to  some  fair  estimate  of  the  worth  of  the 
innumerable  theories  nowadays  advanced,  the  book  will 
again  prove  its  value. 

New  York  Herald: 

Whether  the  book  is  too  severe  or  not,  it  is  refresh- 
ing to  read  about  the  stage,  not  through  the  customary 
glamor  or  through  the  tawdry  exaggeration  of  the 
press  agent,  but  in  the  light  of  common  day. 

Louisville  Courier-Journal: 

The   author   shatters   cherished   illusions   unmerci- 
fully.    Such   a  book   is   helpful.    It  should   be   uni- 
versally read  and  believed. 
i2mo.   silk   cloth.    Gilt   top Net  $i.oo 


